Nestling her sketchpad in her lap, Emily stared up at the Carravagio painting that hung on the wall before her. She should have brought a chair, she reflected, or at least a stool to sit on. Instead, her legs were stretched out before her on the cool marble floor, her puffy skirts tucked beneath them. She gazed at the warm display of color. The artist was a master at using light to his advantage, of causing a beam of it to make his subjects glow upon the canvas.

Setting her pencil to the paper, she began from the left with the chair and the man who was seated upon it. Her strokes were light and swift as she moved on to the next individual, marking the spots where each person ought to be placed in relation to the other. Satisfied, she began adding details until faces started to emerge, the pressure of her pencil more deliberate now as she added contours and shadows.

“It’s quite the masterpiece, is it not?”

Startled by the masculine tone that had spoken, Emily looked up from her sketchpad to find the Earl of Montsmouth standing off to one side. He wore a bright green velvet jacket and a pair of charcoal-colored trousers that seemed to accentuate his height. His hair reminded Emily of slick raven feathers, the fine bone structure of his face affording him with the predatory look of a fox. She’d always considered him a little peculiar – a man who seemed to prefer his own company to that of others – so it had surprised her when he’d arrived to join the festivities.

“He is one of my favorite artists.” Emily hastily turned the page of her sketchpad, hiding it from view.

Slowly, Montsmouth lowered the monocle through which he’d been studying the painting and turned to face her. A flicker of interest appeared in his amber eyes. He considered her for a moment before moving closer, his languid pace disturbing the sense of calm she’d possessed before his arrival. “And you are an artist too.” He held out his hand with confident expectation.

Emily shook her head. “No.” She hugged the sketchbook against her chest.

An elegant eyebrow drew upward, and he lowered his hand, clasping it with his other behind his back. “Because you’re afraid,” he pronounced.

“Because I know I’m not good enough,” she explained. “I merely dabble, like most young ladies do.”

A snort was his first response to her statement, and she dearly wished it would be the end of their discussion – that he would simply move on so she might return to her sketch. Instead, he surprised her by claiming a spot beside her on the floor. “Well, one thing is certain: you can never call yourself an artist until you have the courage to share your work with others.”

“I would not wish to trouble any audience with my meager efforts.”

“Then why bother at all?”

The question made her turn her head to stare at him. “For my own pleasure, my lord.”

He turned his head as well, facing her directly. “Is that satisfying enough for you?”

“I…” She’d never really considered such a question before and could only blink at him now as words failed her.

Nodding, he gave her a knowing smile, one that transformed his features from cool aloofness to pleasant thoughtfulness. “Have I happened upon your secret desire, Lady Emily?”

She stared at him. How could somebody take a mere glance at her and suddenly know her better than she knew herself? It seemed incredible. And yet, she felt her heart flutter with renewed vigor while a dream, somehow buried beneath duty and stricture, rose to the surface and offered an invitation. “For years I’ve been practicing, improving my skill, but I fear it isn’t enough – that it will never be enough.”

“So you prefer to remain unheard? Silent? To deny the world your talent?”

“Talent?” she scoffed. “How can you possibly suppose I might have any when you haven’t even seen my drawings yet?”

He tilted his head, his eyes fixed on hers as though he were reading her like a book. “I cannot, but the intensity with which you were looking at that painting, picking it apart with your eyes, suggests great passion. This is not born without reason, my lady.” He held his hand toward her sketchbook once more. “If I may?”

Feeling as though she stood on a precipice, Emily reluctantly handed it to him. After all, if she could not take the critique of a stranger, then what hope would she have of ever becoming the artist she secretly wished to be? So she watched with her heart in her throat while he carefully opened the book, betraying no hint of opinion when the first images came into view.

“Those were nothing more than a few quick sketches,” she explained, in the hope he wouldn’t judge her on the unfinished scribbles she’d made on a rainy afternoon when she’d had nothing better to do.

He didn’t comment. Instead, he held up his hand, silencing her while his gaze remained fixed on the hurried pencil strokes slashing across the paper. Turning the page, he gave an equal amount of attention to a watercolor portraying a dark alley where a beggar sat, while a wealthy man nearby bargained with a whore. Montsmouth’s eyebrows rose a notch, and Emily’s heart flipped over.

“That’s just—” she began to explain.

“Hush.” He silenced her once again.

Swallowing, she instinctively rose, unable to remain by his side while he peered into the private world she’d created for herself. She crossed to the window and looked out at the snow- covered landscape. Far below, she could see Laura and Lamont skating across the lake, while two servants stood in attendance on the embankment. A smile touched Emily’s lips when the duke reached out his arms for balance in an effort to follow her sister. The poor man had adamantly declared his disinterest in skating, and yet there he was, doing his best to stay upright.

Unwilling to pry, she turned away from the scene, though she couldn’t quite stop from wondering if more Thorncliff romances might be underway. Earlier, she’d seen Rachel smile while she walked with Belgrave, which was most unusual since Rachel rarely found anything amusing. And then there was Fiona and Chadwick. Emily had not been able to keep from noticing the way the two continued to eye each other whenever they were in the same room.

The only eligible gentleman remaining was Montsmouth. Sighing, she glanced across at where he sat, his complete attention riveted on the image of a child clutching his mother as she soothed away his pain. There was little likelihood of her forming an attachment to him, considering how uncomfortable he made her feel. His searching eyes and strange ability to show up when least expected put her on edge in a way she didn’t care for in the least. And yet, he seemed transfixed by what he was seeing right now.

Eventually, after another ten minutes had passed and Emily’s stomach had twisted itself into such a tight knot she felt she might be sick, he closed the book and stood. “Thank you.” He handed it back to her. “I am honored you would trust me with your work.”

For the first time, she saw warmth reflected in the depth of his otherwise cool expression. And so she expelled the breath she’d been holding and dared ask, “What do you think of it?”

He studied her for a moment, long enough for fear to creep into her heart and for her to regret ever showing an interest in his opinion. But then a smile touched his lips, and he spoke with the sort of sincerity that could not be fabricated. “You are far more talented than I imagined, Lady Emily. Your ability to capture human emotion is unparalleled.”

Unable to speak as she tried to comprehend what he’d told her, she simply stared back. Her silence eventually prompted him to turn away and start walking along the length of the gallery. She blinked, gathered her thoughts, and hastened after him with her sketchbook firmly tucked beneath her arm. “Do you mean it?” she asked, drawing up beside him.

He glanced at her briefly before giving his attention to the paintings they passed on their way. “Do you doubt me?”

“Well, no. Of course not.” She feared she might have insulted him now. “But your praise is greater than I anticipated.”

He paused in front of an impressive Goya and spoke in an even tone demanding attention. “There are those who visit Thorncliff because they welcome an extravagant retreat. My motive for being here is entirely different. I come for the art.” He dropped a look in her direction as if to ensure she was listening. Their eyes met, and she suddenly had the distinct impression her opinion of him as a standoffish dandy was entirely misplaced. “My own private collection is something to be admired. I visit auctions at regular intervals and have dedicated much of my life to studying the masters. If there is one thing I’m capable of recognizing when I see it, it is talent, Lady Emily. Believe me when I tell you that yours should be celebrated. If you wish it, you may become one of the best known artists of our time.”

“You flatter me, my lord.”

“I only speak the truth,” he told her sharply.

She inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what to say.” Not in a million years would she have guessed how much they had in common – that he was so invested in art. “Perhaps one day you’ll invite me to view your collection?”

Her boldness surprised her. She never would have dared to propose such a thing half an hour earlier, but something had changed since then. In the most unlikely way possible, she felt a connection to Montsmouth she’d never had with anyone else before. He’d seen her soul and applauded it. Her head felt light at the very notion.

“It would be my pleasure to do so,” he murmured. His tone was deeper than before, conveying a rich, velvety feel that made her skin prick with a new sort of awareness. “And,” he added, proceeding along the gallery once more, “if you’ll allow it, I will happily help you advance your career. My connections in the art world are numerous.”

“Oh!” She felt a broad smile slide into place. Her heart soared with possibilities. “Do you think I might be ready to do so?”

“You are beyond ready, my lady.” Halting, he turned to face her with penetrating eyes. “I suggest we take a few of your sketches to crop and frame. In my opinion they will do splendidly in a private event sale – at least twelve pounds apiece, I should think.”

“That’s quite…er…” She took a moment to steady her anxious nerves. “Unexpected.”

“Now, you have to understand there are no guarantees, but I am optimistic where you are concerned, and I say that with the greatest respect.”

“You said you came here for the art.” For reasons she couldn’t quite understand, she felt a need to know more about him now – to understand the person he was, since he obviously wasn’t at all the man she’d assumed him to be. “Is that why you’ve be roaming the estate during your visits?” When he failed to answer, she added, “When I was last here during the summer, I got the distinct impression you were searching all of the rooms. I suppose that makes sense if you were hunting for paintings.”

“I was certainly doing that.” They’d reached the door at the end of the gallery. His hand reached for the handle, allowing it to swing open. “After you, my lady.”

Something in his voice suggested there was more to his interest in Thorncliff than a simple fondness for art. She pondered this notion as she preceded him into the hallway beyond. Stopping there while he closed the door behind them, she chose to sate her curiosity by candidly asking, “What exactly do you mean?”

For a second, it seemed he would tell her, but then his gaze shuttered and he turned away, heading in the direction of the stairs. “I believe I’ll go and rest for a while before supper.” Swiveling on his heels, he reached for her hand while executing a flamboyant bow. His lips grazed her knuckles for the briefest of seconds – long enough for her heart to flutter – before he straightened and took a step back. “If you’ll please excuse me?”

With her thoughts and emotions in complete disarray, Emily managed a hasty nod. “Of course. I’ll look forward to seeing you later.”

He dipped his head in response, allowed a slight smile, and then he was gone, up the stairs to his chamber. Emily stared at the spot where he’d stood seconds before, more confused than she’d ever felt in her life, not just by the man, but by the startling realization she might be developing feelings for him.