Too Tempting to Resist (18 page)

“Oh, Haddan.”

“Gryff,” he corrected. “Say it.”

“Gryff,” she whispered, his name like honey on her lips. “That feels so
good
.”

His fingers dipped and danced against her flesh.

Liquid fire coursed through her, the heat of it growing unbearable.

“
Gryff!
”

He surged into her, his cry joining hers.

And then…and then she was floating—floating on a warm, zephyrous bed of lighter-than-air spun gold, its winking shimmers of light brighter than the sun.

Coming back down to earth, Eliza opened her eyes from a drowsy half-sleep to see Gryff was still deep in repose, his long, lithe body stretched out, face up, on the grass. The leaves of the foliage painted shades of light and shadow over his belly and the dragon tattoo.

On impish impulse, she crept over to her paintbox and set it up on the grass beside him. Choosing a pointed sable-hair brush, she wet it in water, and twirled it to a fine point.

He made a snuffling sound in the back of his throat, but didn’t wake.

She mixed up a deep azure blue and with quick, bold strokes, began painting a second dragon around the tattoo.

His eyes flew open.

“Don’t jump,” she cautioned, “or you’ll ruin the snout.”

“Snout is not a term I use for…” He gingerly lifted his head. “Oh, I see what you mean.” He watched her sketch in a long, curling neck and wings. “Very clever,” he murmured. “You are exceedingly skilled with a brush.”

“Art requires diligent practice,” said Eliza, ducking her head to hide her grin. She flicked the bristles lower, brushing soft sable against the head of his cock.

His reaction was immediate—and physical.

“I think your two dragons need another playfellow,” she teased, taking up a smaller brush and dipping it in a pool of scarlet paint. With a few more strokes she drew in fanciful slanted eyes, and a mouth with curved fangs.

Roused from repose, his privy part was now standing at attention.

Giggling, Eliza switched to alternating hues of turquoise and emerald to draw in an intricate pattern of scales beneath the flanged head.

Gryff was growing more and more aroused by the moment. “Have a care. Your new beastie seems to be waking from a nap and may have an urge to show off his newfound splendor.”

“Maybe the beastie only wants to play with the dragons,” she said.

“My beastie a molly beastie?” he exclaimed in mock outrage. “No, I assure you, he only waggles his scales for women.”

They were laughing too loudly to hear the faint creak of the gate hinges. It took a loud cough to catch Gryff’s attention.

“Forgive me for interrupting.”

Gryff sat up and snatched for his breeches. “Bloody hell, Cam, you ought to knock before barging into a private place.”

“I did. Several times.” He inclined a curt nod to Eliza. “Milady.”

She had her shirt clutched to her chest.

“Might I have a word with you, Gryff?” went on Cameron. “Outside if you please.”

W
hat the devil do you mean, barging in on us like that,” demanded Gryff. His initial shock had been replaced by equal measures of anger and embarrassment. “This time your cursed sense of humor has overstepped its boundaries.”

Cameron’s face was oddly expressionless. “I’m aware of the fact that you consider this no laughing matter.” Taking Gryff by the arm, he drew him away from the wall. “The thing is, you pressed me to find out certain information as quickly as I could, so I assumed you wished to hear it without delay.”

“Given the circumstances, another hour or two would hardly have made a difference,” he growled.

“I beg to differ.” His friend’s gaze had grown shuttered.

Gryff felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Why?”

Cameron answered with a question of his own. “Just how involved are you with Leete’s sister?”

“What do you mean?”

“
Must
I spell it out in graphic detail?” A martyred sigh. “It appears that you are in much deeper into this dalliance you indicated. And that, I fear, may present a problem.”

Gryff clenched his jaw. “My private affairs are none of your concern, Cam.”

A tense silence quivered between them for a moment before his friend expelled another sharp breath. “Lady Brentford is your elusive Linden,” he said without preamble.

“Impossible,” whispered Gryff. “You must be mistaken.”

“I assure you, I’m not. I had a look at Watkins’s correspondence last night, and it’s all there in writing—every last detail about the commission.”

“But she claims to have no artistic talent.”

“Then she is not being truthful,” replied Cameron. “According to the letters, Watkins considers her to be one of the finest botanical artists in all of England.”

“Bloody hell,” whispered Gryff.

“I’m sorry,” said his friend softly. “But you did ask, and I feel an obligation to tell you all the facts, no matter how unwelcome.” He paused. “You do realize that this colors your query about Brighton. If Lady Brentford is Linden, that also means…” He let his voice trail off.

“That means she is working with the baronet on selling art forgeries,” Gryff finished for him.

“So it would seem.”

Despite the dappling of light that softened the leafy shadows, Gryff felt chilled to the bone. Hugging his arms to his bare chest he turned to stare at the garden wall. The ivy-covered stones no longer seemed to wave a friendly invitation. They now appeared an ominous barrier, a false front.

“Damnation,” he muttered. “Why—why would she do such a thing when her talents allow her to earn an honest living? I’m paying a very generous sum for her paintings.”

“Money has a powerful attraction,” said Cameron. “Some people simply can’t get enough of it.”

“But Lady Brentford seems the very opposite of a greedy, grasping criminal.”

His friend waited until the last little echo of the protest died away before asking, “How well do you really know her?”

“Apparently not well at all,” replied Gryff tightly. His chest felt as if an iron band was squeezing into muscle and sinew, slowly forcing the air from his lungs.

Cameron clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry.”

Gryff forced himself to inhale, once, then twice. “So am I.” He was a worldly Hellhound, a jaded rogue who had seen every shade of good and bad. It was ridiculous to feel disappointed or disillusioned.

“I doubt that you want to ride back to London barefoot.” His friend’s voice somehow penetrated the harsh humming in his ears. “Shall I fetch the rest of your clothing?”

Boots—his boots were still lying in the grass, along with his coat and the other testaments to his folly. “No.” He chafed at his arms, only to find them as cold and unfeeling as marble. “Thank you but I’m not quite that much of a coward.”

“I’ll wait for you here.”

Gryff walked across the path, ignoring the painful press of gravel against the soles of his feet.
Pain is good
, he told himself. It provided a welcome physical distraction from his mental turmoil. He pushed the gate open and drew it shut behind him.

“Bad news?” Eliza stood still as a statue by the edge of the grass. She was fully dressed, her hair hastily caught up in a simple twist at the nape of her neck. Loose tendrils danced in the breeze, finespun threads of gold lacing the dark greens of the background foliage as she held out his carefully smoothed garments. Her face was very pale and concern clouded her eyes.

A consummate actress as well as artist
, he thought rather bitterly. He felt conflicted. Confused. Betrayed. Though that was perhaps a bit unfair. She had no idea he was the author of the essays, so deliberate deception was not a sin he could lay at her feet.

Lifting his gaze from the ground, he replied with a curt, “Yes.”

“I—I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He restrained the urge to laugh. “No. Nothing.” Reaching for his shirt, he quickly pulled it on and shoved the tails into his breeches. “I’m afraid that circumstances demand I return to Town without delay.” A fleck of paint spotted the back of his hand, prompting him to add grimly, “Enjoy your painting. Judging from the example I have on my person, you have been much too modest about your talents.”

A shadow of alarm seemed to ripple in her eyes as Eliza wordlessly handed him his coat.

Avoiding her gaze, Gryff stuffed his cravat into his pocket and pulled on his boots. Uncertainty gripped his throat. A part of him wanted to confront her, to demand an explanation. He had never been one to turn tail and run in the face of a challenge, but what was there to say?

Are you a crafty criminal on top of being a liar, Lady Brentford?
In truth, he would rather not hear the answer from her lips.

“Godspeed, Lord Haddan,” she said softly. “I hope that whatever the trouble, it resolves itself quickly.”

Unable to loosen his tongue, he simply nodded and turned away.

Eliza winced as the gate fell shut. Faint though it was, the clink had an ominous finality to it. Or was it merely her imagination that Lord Haddan’s eyes had turned colder, harder, during the short meeting with his friend?

“But why?” she whispered. Why would he have such a sudden change of heart?

The chirping of the linnets gave no answer.

Trying to shake off a sense of foreboding, she began to gather up her paints and brushes. “It makes no sense,” she mused to herself. One moment they had been sharing intimate laughs. And then the next, he fixed her with a grim, stony-faced stare.

As if I were a criminal.

Eliza sat down rather heavily and drew her knees to her chest.
Enjoy your painting
, he had said.
You have been much too modest about your talents.

Oh no, surely he couldn’t have any idea…

A rustling in the nearby planting drew her out of the unwelcome thoughts. She looked around to see a marmalade tail waving among the pink gerberas. A paw flashed, followed by a hiss and a thump.

“Oh, Elf, what have you got there? A dead vole?” Heaving a sigh, she scooted over to the flower bed. “I’d much rather it be a magic frog. If ever I needed a fairy-tale prince to appear, it is now.”

The cat’s newfound plaything had neither furry claws nor webbed feet. It was a small leatherbound notebook tied shut with a familiar green ribbon.

“Drat it.” It must have fallen from Haddan’s pocket when he had tossed his coat onto the bench. She had seen him scribbling in it often enough to guess that the contents would be sorely missed.

Elf purred loudly, sounding immensely pleased with himself.

“Oh, you naughty, naughty creature. Haddan might think that I did this on purpose, to lure him back here.” A hot flush rose up to ridge her cheekbones. She had, after all, been alone with his coat.

The cat batted at the small emerald bow.

“I ought to box those pointy little ears of yours,” she muttered. “It’s all because of you that push came to shove.”

Elf gave an aggrieved hiss.

“Oh, you’re right,” she admitted. “The fault lies more with me and my own ungovernable urges. I should have been satisfied with life in the shadows. But no, I had to spread my wings and try to fly to the brightest burning orb in the sky.” Eliza held back a sniff. “And we all know what happened to Icarus. When dreams are fashioned of naught but wax and feathers, one should know better than to get too close to the sun.”

Meow.

Eliza felt a little like whimpering, too. Much as she tried to convince herself that the marquess’s abrupt departure was not personal, she couldn’t dispel the memory of his eyes, and the look, however fleeting, that had dulled their lovely color.

Disappointment?
Nay, it had been worse than that.
Dismay.
Disgust.

“I don’t understand,” she said again, stroking a finger over the worn leather cover of the notebook. “But then, what do I really know of men and how their minds work?” Her jaw tightened. “Save that somehow, since the time of Adam and Eve, females are always the ones who must suffer the worst of the serpent’s bite.”

Her hand came to rest on the ribbon, and it seemed to twitch beneath her painted palm. “Hell’s bells, since I already seem to be hurtling down the Path to Perdition at full speed, what’s another little sin to speed me on my way? I may as well have a look inside.” The tiny knot slipped free. “What deep, dark secrets can the Marquess of Haddan have?”

After soothing her conscience with the reminder that he had claimed to be making notes on the landscape, Eliza slowly opened the cover.

A page turned, then another.

“Oh.” A single syllable was all she could manage. Tracing a finger over the penciled script, she wished that she could deny the truth. But there it was, writ plainly on the paper.

Haddan was the author of those lyrical essays?

No, it wasn’t a question, it was a cold, hard fact. The only real conundrum was why Haddan would wish to hide his talents from the public. Why choose a pen name?

Why, why, why?

Her mouth crooked. “I, of all people, know there are reasons for keeping secrets. But the marquess need not worry about money. He has control over his destiny while I…”

Elf nudged up to her, rubbing his whiskered face against her hand. “Yes, I know—I should not succumb to self-pity.” She stroked his soft fur, seeking some measure of warmth to take the chill from her bones.

“I wish that Haddan and I might have shared…”

Ah, if wishes were pennies, I’d be rich as Croesus.

“And then I could tell Brighton to go to the Devil.”

Meow.

“Yes, and take Harry along with him.”

For a moment, the thought of her brother with a red-hot pitchfork burning his bum brightened her spirits. Just as quickly, the spark fizzled and died, leaving naught but cold ashes.

The sun was sinking, the lengthening shadows cutting like knife blades across the garden. Her sanctuary suddenly felt more like a prison than a refuge, and as she stared at the dark bars, Eliza had to escape.

There was only one place in the world where a smile would make her feel welcome. Wanted.

She stared down at her hands, but the sight of the whimsical painting nearly made her come undone.

Scrubbing her palm on her pantaloons did not erase the stubborn image. Averting her eyes, she tossed the notebook into her paintbox and snapped the lid shut.

If only it were so easy to lock away her own bruised heart.

Crystal clinked against silver. “You look as if you could use a drink,” said Cameron, pouring out two generous measures of spirits and carrying them over to the hearth.

“I don’t want brandy,” muttered Gryff. “I want…”

He paused in mid-sentence, unsure of how to finish his thought. What
did
he want? An apology? That was rather hypocritical, considering how often he had bent Society’s strictures on right and wrong. Maybe she didn’t see her artistic deception as wrong—if the painting was exquisite, and the buyer took pleasure from it, what did it really matter who had created it?

A sticky philosophical question. However, he was in no mood to ponder abstract questions of morality.

“I want some answers about what Brighton is up to.”

“Knowledge is a dangerous thing,” answered Cameron, lifting the drink to his lips. Glints of fire-sparked gold winked off the faceted glass, a mocking reminder of Lady Brentford’s sun-lit hair. “Are you sure that you haven’t already learned enough?”

A grunt sounded in answer.

“I’m not sure whether to take that as a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’” Cameron took a long sip. “But if I might offer a word of advice, think about why you wish to pursue this, Gryff. Ask yourself what you are looking to gain.” A pause. “Other than trouble.”

“It’s not about me,” he snapped.
Or was it?
“Not entirely,” he amended. “Yes, call it selfish, but I would like to see the project come to fruition. All questions of morality aside, Lady Brentford is an extraordinary artistic talent, and her illustrations add depth and beauty to my words. There is no doubt in my mind that the whole would be better than the two parts.”

Cameron took another silent sip of his brandy.

“However, I’m talking about more than ink on paper. There is something about this that just…” Gryff placed his palms on the marble mantle and tapped a brusque tattoo. “…feels wrong.”

His friend watched him intently for a long moment. “If you squeeze any harder on that stone, it will crack into a thousand little shards.”

Gryff answered with a low oath.

“She has really gotten under your skin.”

His hackles rose. “Bloody hell, Cam. From the moment I met her, I could sense a wariness in her—call it fear, if you will.”

“A damsel in distress?”

He curled a fist. “I swear, if you laugh at her, I shall knock your teeth into your gullet.”

“Seeing as I value my pearly smile, I’ll not test your prowess.” Cameron then eased the amusement from his tone. “Are you, perchance, in love with her?”

Love.
Gryff drew in a deep breath, unsure of how to answer. “I—I’m not sure what to call it. All I know is that she is my friend, and needs my help.”