Chapter 9
Shall we investigate the bedrooms upstairs?
The air whooshed out of the room the instant the words crossed her lips, transforming the unexpected camaraderie of a minute ago into an uncomfortable sort of intimacy. She might burst into flame. It was possible.
Everything was wrong with that sentence.
We. There was no we. We implied togetherness. And he and she most definitely were not together.
He was Lord St. Alban. She was Lady Olivia Montfort. That was all.
Then there was the separate, but entirely too related, issue of the bedroom investigation upstairs. How unaffected by it he appeared as his hand ran along the fine wood grain of the banister. Women must invite him to investigate their bedrooms on an hourly basis.
His gaze held hers, steady and stoic. Or was that an amused glint in his eye? “After you, my lady.”
Her voice caught in her throat, and she nodded her assent. Shoulders squared, she turned away from him and toward the coiled staircase. It was a lovely staircase, calling to mind a nautilus fossil she once held as a girl. This might be her staircase . . . her house.
So why had she said those words in it? They were words spoken from the lips of a wife to her husband. From a mistress to her lover.
She set a boot on the bottom step and began to climb, the heat of his gaze setting her back ablaze. She tried to imagine all the places his eyes could rest, but her mind kept returning to one: her derriere. Displayed at eye level. The cool, open space of the foyer turned close and hot, stifling.
To make matters worse, it seemed she couldn’t keep the sway out of her hips, try as she might. She was a woman. She had hips. And, apparently, they would sway. What further indignity must she suffer before this day was done?
At last, she reached the second level, and her oblivious feet led her to the first door on the right. Her mistake instantly foregrounded itself. This was the master’s bedroom suite with its high corniced ceilings, rich mahogany paneling, and floor-to-ceiling bow window overlooking a peaceful back garden. The echo of his footsteps increased in volume as he followed her into the room.
Her body tensed, anticipating the inevitable question. The same question that had delighted her no more than a few minutes ago. He’d asked it in every other room. It only followed that he would ask it here. Such was the current state of her luck.
“Lady Olivia”—Here it came—“what masterpiece would you hang in this room?”
The last word sounded as if it had been bitten off. As if the realization of which room they occupied dawned on him in the process of speaking. Her gaze flew to meet his, and she saw confirmation in his eyes. It was possible her assumption that this sort of scenario was nothing new to him was premature.
She rather relished the idea of a discomfited Lord St. Alban. She might be able to preserve, or, more accurately, regain her state of balance if she further upset his. She hadn’t spent the last six months scandalizing the ton for naught. Perhaps it was time she profited from her outré reputation.
“What would I hang in my bedroom?” She racked her brain for a shocking sequence of words. “A rather . . . salacious . . . option would be”—Ah, she had just the thing—“one of Goya’s Majas.”
She braced herself for his reaction. Would he blush? Shuffle his feet?
His features remained unmoving. Not even the palest spark of recognition.
“Are you not familiar with the Majas?”
Lord St. Alban’s hands—his gorgeous, capable hands—splayed wide in a gesture of surrender, and he held his tongue.
“There are two,” she began, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice. “First came The Nude Maja at the turn of the century. It depicts a woman reclining unclothed on a chaise longue. Some have called it obscene as Maja’s mons pubis is entirely exposed to her audience.”
Again, she paused for a reaction. Again, in vain. He simply stared through the bow window toward the back garden.
Olivia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “The scandal over The Nude Maja was, in fact, so great that Goya was compelled to produce The Clothed Maja three years later.”
“And which would you have in here?” he asked so softly that his words just reached her.
Her heart had no choice but to accelerate. “The Nude Maja would be the obvious pick, but . . .” she trailed off, hesitant and uncertain. How was it that she was revealing herself? Wasn’t he the one whose equilibrium should feel off? Yet she couldn’t not answer him. “I would have The Clothed Maja.”
In the window’s reflection, his eyebrows lifted in silent query. An inexplicable urge to explain herself propelled her on. “It’s the subtly differing expressions on the Majas’ faces. Even as Goya yielded to public pressure, he did so with a bit of rebellion. The clothed Maja is the saucier of the two Majas, the one more knowledgeable about her seductive prowess than her nude self.”
He met her gaze in the reflection and held it. “As is often the case with a woman confident in her own sensuality,” he spoke on a low vibration.
The air quaked between them. Her heart thundering in her chest, she remained as still as a startled deer, unable to blink, unable to draw breath. Under no circumstances should she take this house. She’d allowed him to put his stamp on every room.
Ha. She’d not only allowed it, but had assisted it.
“No nudes?” His eyes refused to release her.
She opened her mouth to tell a lie, but it refused to form beneath the acuity of his focus. As if pulled by a strong magnet, her feet carried her forward, inch by inch, until she was close enough to touch her fingers to his back, broad and strong, and trace tense muscles corded beneath his impeccably tailored overcoat.
“Here,” she said, pointing an instructive finger over his shoulder, “two or three small nude sketches. Titians. Or Botticellis. Stacked one on top of the other.”
“There?” He touched a forefinger to the right of the windowpane. “On that intimate sliver of wall?”
An involuntary shiver pulsed from the juncture of her legs. Throat dry, she rasped a husky, “Yes,” her eyes fixed on his flawless profile.
She could stare at him all day, except she suspected looking wouldn’t be enough. Part of her begged to touch him, to stroke her fingers across his bare skin and know his every texture. Looking would never be enough.
He pivoted to face her, and she became acutely aware of how close she’d ventured. Only a scant bit of air separated her chest from his. Her head tilted back, and his gaze reclaimed hers. She detected latent ferocity within those depths. The sort that wouldn’t let her go if he ever got her between his teeth.
She wasn’t sure she would want him to.
Free will abandoned her, and she became a being motivated by pure instinct. Words like fierce and desire swirled around her head. No part of their bodies touched, yet every fiber of her being vibrated with the possibility of where those words could lead them.
To be sure, there was no bed in this room, or in this empty house, but that hardly seemed relevant. Trivialities, like beds, didn’t matter with this man, whose gaze alone incited such a wave of lust within her that all she could do was squeeze her thighs together. What further havoc could he wreak upon her?
Her eyelids lowered, and her heels lifted, the distance between their mouths closing with each additional pound of pressure she applied to the tips of her toes. Separated by the slimmest millimeter, his lips parted, his breath a silky feather across her lips.
“A Titian? Or a Botticelli?”
Her eyes startled open. “Yes?”
“Pardon me for saying,” he spoke, the words gravel against his throat, “but it seems that you would bring the past back to life wholesale.”
She blinked, and the spell evaporated. Reality, sharp and precise, stabbed through her. She took one, then another step backward, obeying her instinct to escape the sting of his words.
From a safe distance, her answer emerged hot and most definitely bothered. “And you’ll have to pardon me for saying, Lord St. Alban, that you haven’t the faintest clue of what you speak.” She shuffled another step back and spread her arms wide. “This house is a move in a forward direction.”
“Yet,” he began with frustrating deliberation. The Dutch reputation for stoicism was an absolute fact. Good thing the window wasn’t open. She might be tempted to push him through it. “You would decorate this house in paintings from past centuries, even going so far as to resurrect an old master or two. A future decked out in colors from the past isn’t exactly a move in a forward direction.”
She opened her mouth to issue a scathing retort before closing it. None was coming to save her. She hadn’t avoided his sting. Her weak reply was to retreat another step toward the door, toward escape.
“How about the works of painters living today?” he pressed. The dratted man was like a terrier with a bone. “How about your own pieces?”
A startled laugh burst from her. “My pieces? They aren’t open to public inspection.”
“But in the privacy of your bedroom?”
A sketch of him flashed across her mind. The near obsessive detail with which she’d drawn the firm curve of his lips certainly made it fit for a bedroom. Or a bordello. Or a stack of discards never to see the light of day.
And here she was now, staring at his real, live lips. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and she found there a keen interest. As if every bit of him was attuned to her response.
Well, too bad. She didn’t have to explain this part of herself. Not to him. He hadn’t earned it, and she wasn’t about to give it away. “You think me obsessed with the past?”
“Possibly.” His gaze continued to penetrate, refusing to let her go.
“You know nothing of my obsessions.”
A single eyebrow lifted. “I wouldn’t presume.”
Radiant heat spread through her. The cheek! They both knew his words were the opposite of his thoughts. She must change the subject before she became nothing more than a walking human blush. Perhaps it was time they return to the subject that had brought them together in the first place. “Do you think this a suitable house for entertaining?”
“Pardon?” That too-knowing eyebrow dropped. Good. She’d surprised him.
“I host a monthly art soirée where I showcase a current working artist. Among other things, I need a house that can accommodate up to one hundred guests.”
He shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. “I, uh, might not be the most informed person to ask.”
“But you’re here to help, aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes wide and disingenuous. At last, her footing found purchase on solid ground. “In fact, my next soirée is tomorrow evening.”
~ ~ ~
Jake went stone still. Had he heard those words correctly? Or did he want to hear them so badly that his mind was playing tricks on him?
An invitation to Lady Olivia’s soirée was the opportunity he needed. Except he was expected to dine at the Dowager’s manse tomorrow evening. Miss Fox would be there, too. She’d been invited expressly for the purpose of furthering their acquaintance.
Well, he would have to beg off. There would be other dinners. Finding the thief and securing Mina’s future must take precedence over the stepmother hunt. And one thing was certain: his dealings with Lady Olivia Montfort were an entity altogether separate from that. The Dowager’s matchmaking schemes could wait.
“I would be interested in attending your soirée.”
Lady Olivia’s head cocked to the side, and the mean, little smile he’d caught yesterday as he’d clumsily extricated himself from the tiny desk now curled about her lips. “But I haven’t invited you.”
He blinked. It was true. She hadn’t. He needed to say something, anything, but she’d caught him out. So he did the only sensible thing and remained silent.
One tense second ticked by, then another, and another. At last, she took pity on him. “Of course, with your keen interest in art, and my sketches in particular, you might enjoy it. Guests will begin arriving at eight o’clock.”
She strolled toward the door and stopped. He would have sworn an oath that he’d glimpsed a confident swagger in her step. “And bring Miss Radclyffe. She and Lucy might enjoy an introduction, particularly if they will be attending school together.”
“Lucy attends your parties? It’s my understanding that young ladies aren’t allowed such liberties before they are Out.”
Amusement crinkled the corners of Lady Olivia’s eyes. The words had come out wrong. He sounded like a ninny. Like a Society harebrain.
“Of course she does, my lord. I hadn’t thought you such a stickler for the ton’s rules. It’s somewhat, hmm . . .” she trailed off before pivoting on one heel and striding down the corridor.
Disappointing, he finished for her silently as his ears picked up the echo of her light step trilling down the stairs. An assessment he likely deserved.
It mattered not. He’d secured what he needed: an invitation into her inner circle. An invitation to sniff out the thief. His plan was beginning to bear fruit.
To be sure, he’d somewhat unmanned himself and come across as a Society blockhead—her mean, little smile had assured him of that fact—but he didn’t need her to see him as a man. And he certainly didn’t need to see her as a woman composed of flesh and blood, wants and desires. He didn’t need to see her unbound.
He needed her to lead him to the thief, and, increment by increment, she was doing so. Today was a small victory. In no way should he feel dissatisfied by the idea that he’d disappointed her and that she might now see him as a popinjay.
His blood wasn’t simmering over the thought. He had nothing to prove to her.
He would sharpen his focus on the silver lining. At the last moment she’d returned to being the woman he needed her to be. Not the one who twirled her way through a house on a wave of pure abandon. Not the one whose flick of a tongue tempted him in ways no other ever had. Not the one who revealed the vulnerabilities of her past through a transparent shell of sophistication.
He respected that woman, he might even be in awe of her, the brave choices she’d made, the path she was forging, alone. But he didn’t need that Lady Olivia. He needed her to be hard and difficult, not soft and unguarded.
He needed her to be easy to walk away from.
~ ~ ~
She waited until the echo of his footsteps faded across the foyer and the front door snapped shut. Only then was Olivia able to release the bravado suspended within her lungs.
Not five minutes ago, his scent of cloves had enveloped her, and all she could think was that she wouldn’t mind if his arms enveloped her, too.
No. Nothing so tepid as that. In the privacy of this empty house, she could face her true response to him. Body aflame with desire aching for release, her mind had them horizontal on the bare floorboards, pressing, pulling, tugging, begging for more and more and more until—
Until what? Certain salacious poems and novels detailed quite intimately where such gambols led, but she’d never discovered that place for herself, not with Percy.
But with Lord St. Alban? Her intuition told her she’d find out rather quickly. And, oh, how very much she wanted to know.
On a shaky breath, she forced her body into motion, as if in doing so, she could as easily move away from opaque curiosities that nipped at her like tenacious little fleas that wouldn’t leave her be. Her feet crept to the rear of the kitchen, toward the staircase that led up to the communal, secret garden shared with several other townhouses. A cooling outdoor stroll was what she needed.
She ascended the steps and pushed open the door. Her feet came to a dead stop, and the breath caught in her chest. Images conjured up by a too-attractive viscount fled.
Marvelous. No other word captured this garden, ripe with fresh greenery peeking out after an overlong winter and blessedly devoid of another human soul. A narrow footpath wound through the first buds of spring roses not yet in bloom: yellows, pinks, reds, oranges, lavenders. Soon this garden would be a thing of beauty. It was enough to inspire one to take up painting the botanical sort of beauty instead of the human variety.
Now there was a thought. Still life would be so much easier than people. So much more predictable.
She paused beside a vibrant fuchsia rose and brushed her fingertips across petals wound in a tight, velvety bud. Take the life cycle of this rose. From the moment a bee pollinated an ovule to form a seed, its fate was determined. With the proper amount of water, dirt, and sunlight, its path toward dazzling effulgence was secured.
Humans were an altogether different matter, their life cycle fraught with uncertainty and unpredictability. And it seemed to her that they preferred it this way, not knowing what surprise lurked around the corner.
Be it pleasant or unpleasant, it was in a human’s nature to root it out. It could be glory on the battlefield, colors flying high, or a death faked in a war-scarred mountain pass on a sunny afternoon. The cost to self or others rarely figured into these risks that came down to an all-or-nothing scenario, that never considered the black void left to others when it ended on the nothing side.
She approached a small bench and perched on its edge, the green carpet of grass before her extending toward a lively fountain, its bubbling stream a distant, soothing hush. How readily she could return to this dark place.
How dare Lord St. Alban proclaim that she would bring the past wholesale into the present. He wasn’t there, in her mind, when Mariana had delivered the news that Percy was alive. How all she could think was that she wanted—needed—to be set free from a marriage she’d long believed herself liberated from.
Never again would she place her fate in the hands of another. Or again be fooled by the first rush of love, heady, beguiling, and unreliable.
She would choose the life cycle of an English rose. The view might be limited, but her future would be predictable and her own. For here was the other point about a rose: it had thorns. She would employ every last one to keep her independence.
Yet by inviting Lord St. Alban to her monthly soirée, hadn’t she undercut that intention? Hadn’t she stepped into the realm of unpredictability and invited him to further complicate his life with hers?
Tomorrow, she would see him again. Did she want to see him again tomorrow? Did her blood sing through her veins at the thought? It was entirely conceivable that both possibilities were true.
She strove for another controlled breath, but it refused to obey, instead entering her lungs ragged and shallow. Whatever emotions Lord St. Alban stirred within her, she must resolve and silence.
For her present.
For her future.