Leslie Lafoy (8 page)

He cocked his brow slightly higher and his eyes sparkled. “And a bit provocative.”

She resisted the urge to swallow. “Oh?”

“Do you like being buttoned all the way up to your neck, Simone?”

Oh, dear. She knew where this was going. The proper response would be a very firm
Why, yes, I do.
“I hate it, actually. But the requirements of propriety and fashion dictate—” The rest of the words drifted away as he reached out and very slowly, very deliberately undid the uppermost button.

“When
I
paint your portrait,” he said softly, holding her gaze as he boldly undid two more, “we’ll unbutton them all.”

When he painted … Her heart skittered as a heady mix of anticipation and dread surged through her body. “Tristan,” she whispered, looking up at him.

“What?”

She was trying to remember what it was she’d been about to say when he leaned down and planted a slow kiss in the hollow at the base of her throat.

Her breath caught, her senses reeling, she more gasped than said, “Em … could…”

He made a humming sound that vibrated through every fiber of her being, murmured softly, “Yes, at any moment,” and then leisurely trailed kisses up the length of her throat.

Her eyes closed, Simone savored the wicked sensations coursing through her. “Unfortunately,” she whispered just before his lips feathered over hers.

He drew back and smiled down at her, then let his gaze wander down the length of her, the look in his eyes bright and appreciative. “
Most
unfortunately,” he said softly as he drew a fingertip over the damask-covered swell of her breast to tease the hardened peak pushing up from beneath.

A wondrous, pulsing heat shot to her core. Swallowing down a moan of pleasure, she eased away from his touch and breathlessly said, “This is the point where I should protest the boldness of your advance, isn’t it?”

His smile went wide and he rose to his feet saying, “I think it comes a little late to be of much effect, but if it makes you feel better to offer one, by all means, please feel free.”

As he walked over to a chair near the easel, she moistened her lower lip and drew a deep, steadying breath. “Doing and saying things only for the sake of appearances has always struck me as being the sign of a shallow person,” she began as he settled himself on the arm. “What would you say to dispensing with the notion and agreeing to be honest with each other?”

He shrugged and grinned. “You go first.”

“I enjoy your advances. Far more than is seemly and ladylike. Or safe.” His smile fading by slow degrees, she added brightly, “Your turn.”

“I want to make love to you.”

Well, that was far more direct than she’d expected. “I’m flattered. And intrigued.”

“Have you ever lain with a man?”

“No,” she answered, wondering if perhaps honesty wasn’t the best idea after all. But since she’d begun, she had no choice but to go on. “And I’ve never wrapped my legs around one, either. I’ve never wanted to.”

“Until now?”

She gave him a shrug. “I’m mulling the notion. It’s a decided first for me.”

“I’m honored.”

A quick movement behind him caught her attention. “Did you find the pencils, Emmy?”

“I found some,” her friend announced as she sailed into the room, her cheeks flushed, “but I don’t know if they’re the kind Tristan wants.”

He rose from the chair and stepped to Emmy’s side at the easel. “If you’re planning to do a charcoal portrait, they’re perfect,” he said, examining what she’d brought. “If you plan to paint in oils, though, they’ll smudge your colors.”

“Oh, I want to do oils. I know you prefer the shades of gray, but I think they wouldn’t do Simone justice. So I need a simple lead pencil, don’t I?”

“A very hard one that will give you the faintest, lightest gray line and disappear completely under the paint.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” she declared, gliding out just as swiftly as she’d entered only a moment before.

Simone chuckled. “How long do you think she thinks ‘shortly’ is?”

“Not nearly long enough.”

Why every word out of his mouth felt like a caress … “Are you hiding over there?”

“I’m not hiding,” he clarified, taking up his place on the arm of the chair again. “But given my inclinations and the realities of limited time and no French letter…” He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile. “At the moment, distance is the better part of discretion.”

But if they had time and a French letter … The mental image was breathtaking in its detail. “True,” she allowed, tamping down the swirl of heated desire. “But rather than waste this time we have alone…” She quietly cleared her throat. “I want you to know that I’m not engaged in a campaign to find myself a husband. My interest in you is purely physical and most definitely temporary.”

He tilted his head to consider her. “Do you have any idea of how utterly refreshing you are?”

Laughing, she propped her head in her hand and countered, “I believe the more commonly used term is ‘outrageous.’ Are you looking for a wife?”

“I’m supposed to be. Producing an heir and a spare with all due speed and all that. It’s vitally important, you know. The queen lies awake nights worrying that I might croak off before there’s another generation of male Townsends to inherit the title.”

“I’m sure you won’t have any problems finding a suitable mate. Marquises are considered quite the catch, you know. Add in that you’re handsome and dashing … They’ll line up to submit their pedigrees for your consideration.”

“And all of them terribly perfect and cold and boring,” he pointed out. “Why aren’t you interested in marrying?”

“It’s much more fun coming and going as I please, wreaking havoc hither and yon. I have no interest in keeping a household or in committing my life to any of the other things in which women are supposed to take great pride. I hate to embroider. My cooking could kill. And I positively loathe having to dress up and play at being a lady. I’d make a terrible wife.”

“But you’ve come out for a Season,” he posed.

“Only because I was offered a horse if I would.”

He laughed, the sound rippling over her and warming her senses yet another degree.

“What are you going to do if someone makes an offer for you?” he asked. “Daughters of dukes are considered quite the catch, you know. Add in ‘beautiful’ and ‘spirited’…”

“This daughter isn’t considered a catch by anyone,” she assured him. “They’d have to be truly desperate to ask for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Found one!” Emmy exclaimed from the doorway. With a gasp, she froze two feet into the conservatory. “Oh, Simone, you’re stunning. Don’t move at all. Not so much as a twitch.”

“She’s right,” Tristan said, his gaze sweeping her up and down. “Whatever it is that you’re thinking, keep thinking it.”

What had she been thinking? she wondered as the brother and sister stepped behind the easel and conversed in low tones. Oh yes. Tristan had asked why someone would have to be desperate to want to marry her. And she’d instantly felt the familiar pang of anger and the twist of resentment. But there had been a new emotion in the mixture, too, a potent wave of regret, of wishing that her past were different. Simone stared at the far wall of plants and wondered why, after all the years of her life, being the daughter of a whore was suddenly something she would undo if she could.

It wasn’t as though she really wanted to marry and her mother’s choices stood in the way. No, she really and truly believed that marriage was for women who didn’t have anything better to do with their lives. Well, except for her sister Caroline. Carrie seemed to approach her marriage to Drayton the same way she did her decorating and fashioning of wardrobes; it was a creative endeavor that delighted her. But Carrie was Carrie and unique.

Simone sighed quietly and looked over at the easel. Tristan had stepped slightly to the side and was instructing Emmaline on the proper placement of her sketching lines. What was it about the thought of explaining her past to Tristan that made such a difference?

My mother was a prostitute.
A simple statement of fact. And it wasn’t as though it were a great secret; everyone in London knew it. In fact, odds were he already knew the truth and there was no need for her to make any sort of announcement of it. Then again, maybe he didn’t know. Most people in Society treated her with a distant kind of stoniness, as though she had some dreadful disease they might catch if the space between them had the slightest bit of warmth. Since Tristan was anything but distant and cool, either he didn’t know he was at mortal risk or he didn’t care.

If he didn’t know, then telling him the truth could change everything. It would be incredibly sad to lose the delightful, easy banter with him. Not to mention, she allowed in the name of honesty, the delicious way he made her feel. But if it was a matter of his knowing and not caring …

Or perhaps, she suddenly realized, her heart sinking, it was a case of his knowing and believing that the daughter was as willing to offer her body every bit as casually as her mother had been. And if that was the situation …

So far she hadn’t done anything to disabuse him of the notion. Did she want to be nothing more than a casual romp in the sheets for any man inclined to ask for one? Most of the men in the world were … She shuddered and looked back to the easel.

No, only Tristan. She wasn’t her mother any more than he was his father or grandfather. There was something about Tristan that she found absolutely compelling. It was part physical; there could be no denying that he was a handsome, assured man. The other part was harder to define but no less important: an irresistible mix of magnetism and curiosity and delight. It was special.

Special? She quietly snorted. How incredibly fairy-tale and juvenile. No, “special” wasn’t within the realm of possible. He needed a wife and not only didn’t she want to be one, but also her past made her a completely unsuitable candidate. Even the Lunatic Lockwoods had standards, and the bastard daughter of a duke and a prostitute didn’t come anywhere close to meeting them. Yes, whatever physical relationship she and Tristan had was going to be, by practical reality, brief.

Of course, the surest and safest thing to do would be to avoid the temptation of Tristan Townsend entirely. There would be no need to explain her convoluted rise to the peerage. There wouldn’t be any risk of scandal, either. Not that she cared about such things for herself, but Drayton was a member of the House of Lords and Carrie, when she wasn’t confined to the house by pregnancy, was active in charity work; they could well live without the ugly whispers and nasty looks that a scandal would inspire.

Sure and safe were on the one hand, though. On the other … Her gaze slid up and down the length of Tristan’s body and then across the width of his chest and shoulders, mentally stripping him ever so deliberately out of his well-tailored suit. If he looked even half as good as she imagined …

Yes, on the other hand was Tristan Townsend and a curiosity that she’d never in her life faced. And, truth be told, had never expected to face. What was it about him that stirred so strongly a desire thousands of other men hadn’t even been able to awaken?

“Ah, your man Gregory was right. Here you are.”

She looked to the doorway to see Noland advancing on Emmy and Tristan. Actually, Noland was advancing on Emmy and rather like a speeding, overloaded wagon; Tristan just happened to be standing nearby. Simone grinned and hoped he’d be able to jump clear of the wreckage.

Chapter 5

Well, Tristan allowed, mumbling a welcome of sorts, at least Noland’s arrival had eased the disconcerting furrow between Simone’s brows.

“Lady Emmaline, you look lovely today,” his friend said as Tristan watched the tension ease out of the rest of Simone’s body. Her delectable, wondrously responsive, arranged-so-invitingly body.

“I’m wearing a smock covered with paint splotches.”

“And no other woman in all the empire could do it such justice.”

If he could have just thirty minutes alone with her, he could easily— Tristan blinked and brought his attention back to the easel. Or, more accurately, to the fact that his friend was blatantly fawning over his sister. His young and completely innocent sister.

“I’m sure you say such things to all the young ladies,” Em protested, her cheeks flushing bright pink.

“I assure you that I do not. You are the rarest of flowers. Beautiful and delicate and the very essence of femininity.”

Oh, good God. He was going to be sick. Smiling thinly, he asked, “Noland, is there a particular reason you’ve been in search of me?”

Noland looked slightly stunned for a second and then started, replying, “Oh yes. I’ve heard the details of last evening’s catastrophe and simply have to share them with someone.” Before any of them could say whether or not they wanted to hear them, he began the tale, saying, “Seems it started in one of the bedrooms when a lamp was knocked to the floor accidentally. Those in the room failed to notice it immediately and—”

“How could they not notice a fire?” Em interrupted.

Yes, a complete innocent. Tristan chewed the inside of his lip, trying to think of a way to enlighten her without really
enlightening
her. Noland—damn him—wasn’t any help. He just stood there tugging at his collar and studying the glass roof over their heads.

“They were otherwise engaged, Emmy,” Simone offered from her chaise. She laughed softly and added, “The expression is ‘blinded by passion.’”

Emmaline’s eyes went wide and the color in her cheeks deepened. “Oh,” she said softly, quickly focusing on moving the paint around on the canvas before her. “I knew that, of course.”

The silence was deafening. And rapidly progressing into the realm of awkward when Simone gently said, “Of course you did, Emmy. Your mind is just so wrapped up in your painting that anything beyond it is foreign and fuzzy at its first intrusion. It happens to me all the time.” She grinned and added, “Not with painting, but other things. As you were saying, Lord Noland?”

While Tristan silently thanked her for her kindness and aplomb, Noland again took a few seconds to collect his wits. Again they returned with a start that launched him into a spirited telling. “The fire went quickly out of control and spread. As we well know. As of this morning, there are three dead and twenty-four known to be injured. Of those twenty-four, two are not expected to recover.”