Passion Wears Pearls (18 page)

“Which ones?” she asked, genuinely interested in understanding him better.

“Don’t move,” he corrected her gently. “Miss Beckett, may I suggest a change of subject?”

She surprised herself by shaking her head, a new confidence and mischief surging through her. “Which rules are troubling you, Mr. Hastings?”

“My new rules, Miss Beckett, introduced just days ago when you climbed into that carriage. There is a rule about not touching you too much, or making up reasons to get too close, and most especially there is a firm and unbreakable rule about not kissing you.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed softly. “
Those
rules!”

“What are you thinking in that proper head of yours?”

“I’m thinking that it would have been better to make a rule that you couldn’t even mention your rules since … now I find I am thinking of all kinds of unbidden things. …”

“And?”

The urge to lie was palpable and strong. The conversation had become far too intimate, but it had happened so quickly and so naturally that Eleanor wasn’t sure what to say. He’d made a rule about not kissing her and now it was all she could do to imagine what it would be like to be kissed by such a man. For there was no doubt from the molten fire in his eyes and the tendrils of heat spreading down her limbs that he wasn’t proposing some chaste version of a courtly kiss on her hand or cheek.

What would happen if I let myself simply say what I’m thinking?

Before her mind could summon reason, Eleanor did exactly that.

“I was wishing I was the sort of woman who knew what it would be like to break all the rules,” she whispered.

At first, he didn’t react at all, and she wondered if he’d heard her. But then the brushes were being set aside with a methodical calm that didn’t match the blaze of desire in his eyes. The wait was pure torture as Josiah carefully cleaned the brush and then unfolded himself from the stool.

Alarm and anticipation warred openly inside of her, and Eleanor forgot which side of her nature she was supposed to root to victory. For he was close, all at once, and not to adjust a coil of her hair or politely ask her to tilt her head to one side or the other. …

“May I?” he asked softly, and Eleanor didn’t need to ask what he meant.

A kiss.
He’d made the rule, so he needed her permission—and Eleanor knew it was desire and not fear that made her hesitate. Because she wanted this little taste of ruin. Because she envied every reckless soul who had wandered into blissful sin without a glance of regret over their shoulders.

“No.” The word was whispered, and Eleanor’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Whatever I may wish, I am not that woman, Mr. Hastings.”

She braced herself internally for the anger or disappointment in his gaze, but it never came. He held perfectly still and everything in his countenance was calm and caring. He was so close that she could smell cinnamon and sandalwood from the soap he used, and again, the urge to do the unthinkable and touch his face or offer some physical link to reassure herself that the growing friendship between them was real and tangible was almost irresistible.

Almost.

“No,” he echoed softly. “You are not that woman. You are more, Miss Beckett, than the rules could ever restrain or define. And for that, I am grateful.”

He stood slowly, ensuring that his withdrawal wasn’t abrupt or brusque to be misinterpreted as anything more than a gentlemanly retreat from the field. Josiah knew that one sigh or misspoken word of disappointment at the loss of that kiss could send her running.

Oh, but it had been close!

The red dress had a power all its own.

She’d never even been to a country dance, but as he looked at her, it was impossible not to indulge in fantasies of what it would have been like to escort Miss Eleanor
Beckett on his arm to a grand ball or two. She aspired to respectability, but it was tantalizing to think of flexing some of his social powers and being able to introduce her to a few titled peers and his wealthy friends, all the rules be damned!

Not exactly the respectability of an upper-middle-class soiree, but amusing to see her there. God, but she would have dazzled them all and I would have felt like a peacock strutting about with such a woman next to me! In another lifetime, I’d have been able to pursue her and show her all that London has to offer.

He stepped down off the dais and turned to move back around to the canvas, glancing back to assure himself that she was still in position, still with him despite the trespass.

But that was a mistake.

He misjudged the distance, his shin hitting the low stool and knocking his paint palette and brushes to the floor, a small jar of oil overturning to add to the colorful disaster.

“Damn it!”

He knelt instantly to try to stem the worst of it and heard her moving behind him, heard her sigh of dismay.

“Oh my! Can I—”

“Stay there!” He held up a hand to hold her in place. “Please, Miss Beckett.” The flash of anger had been entirely directed at his own clumsiness, but he didn’t wish to add to the moment’s weight with another misunderstanding. “A man should have to clean up his own messes, and I wouldn’t want you to get paint on the hem of that dress—especially since I’m forbidden to buy you another.”

“As you wish. Was your work damaged?” she asked softly, as she sat reluctantly back down.

The painting!
In his embarrassment and rush, he hadn’t even looked to see if the canvas had been splattered or soiled, but luckily, a quick assessment assured him that it hadn’t been touched.
Well, there’s something to be thankful for. Providence is keeping me humble but apparently has decided not to destroy my dreams.

“No, it’s fine. The worst of it will be hearing Escher’s
lecture, but I’ll shift a drop cloth and put it off for a while. If I’m lucky, it might be years.” He sopped up the worst of it using a cloth he had for wiping off the brushes, wincing as the smeared colors merged together into an inglorious gray.

God, I hate gray. Almost as much as I hate black, but how ironic to think it’s there, lurking behind every rainbow on a man’s paintbrush.

He sighed again.
Enough pouting for one day, Hastings.

He shifted off his knees to balance on the back of his ankles, and caught sight of Eleanor Beckett’s face, calm and compassionate. The magic was intact, for there was all the color he’d been trying to capture—still there. It made no sense. But just as striking was the lack of judgment in her eyes when she looked at him scrambling about on the floor.

“Years? You’re an optimist, Mr. Hastings.”

He smiled, his humor impossibly restored. “I’m a pragmatic child, but I’ll accept the compliment all the same.”

He stood, the brushes retrieved and his palette set aside on the table. “I’ll head downstairs to change out of these paint-covered clothes, if you don’t mind.”

“Since the light isn’t good, would you rather—”

“I’m not ready to admit defeat, Miss Beckett.” He’d meant to say it lightly, but it came out as an Olympian vow of some heroic effort.
That was ridiculous, but I’m not taking it back.
“I’ll simply mix new colors and see if I can’t make the most of the day, despite myself.”

“I’m glad.” She said it so quietly for an instant he wasn’t sure he’d heard her rightly.

“Are you glad, Miss Beckett?”

She nodded. “Even if the light isn’t as you’d wish, and your model is, well”—she blushed before continuing on—“less than inspiring, I would hope for a chance at a better day for you. I would miss your company, Mr. Hastings.”

“Thank you for saying such things.” He stepped back from the table, turning to head downstairs, but then hesitated. “Although, I have to correct you on one point, Miss Beckett.”

“And what is that?”

“I would argue that my model is
extremely
inspiring. You undervalue yourself, Miss Beckett.”

“And you flatter me too much, sir.” She smoothed out her skirts and shyly studied her slippers.

He headed toward the doorway, shaking his head. “Hardly,” he muttered under his breath as he left the room. “And the next time you dare a man to kiss you, you’d better watch yourself.”

That night, after eating her dinner in the Grove’s common room, Eleanor wearily retreated to the quiet sanctuary of her apartment. It had been an eventful day.

She distracted herself by trying to clean an already impossibly tidy room, straightening her small wardrobe and rearranging her few possessions. She’d shocked herself with her own behavior, and was still weak-kneed to think how easily he could have been angered by a woman who unwittingly flirted only to spurn his advances.

I was cruel without meaning to be, and then when the paints spilled …

She’d expected him to banish her.

But he hadn’t. After weeks and months of living in fear of Madame Claremont’s unpredictable temper, she’d braced herself for the worst only to discover that her new benefactor was extremely forgiving.

Eleanor changed into her nightclothes and climbed into the bed. Before she doused the light, she spotted the copy of
Lady M’s Guide to Etiquette
on the little table by her bedside. It was pure sentiment that made it a favorite because of her father’s delight in hearing his daughter recite the order of precedence or quote passages about a lady’s deportment. His love for her had inspired his ambitions, and Eleanor had adored him for thinking so highly of her—even if she had always secretly feared disappointing him. Reading Lady M nightly had become a ritual between them, and even now, the act brought her comfort as she turned the weathered pages for advice.

But Lady M had said nothing of men like Josiah Hastings. Lady M had spoken of proper small talk when receiving calls and the reserved and polite affections expected from appropriate gentlemanly suitors. There’d been one tantalizing sentence about bracing oneself for the natural physical exuberance of one’s husband after the wedding, but even that had made it all sound very one-sided and strange.

One-sided. Hardly! I’m on fire, God help me. He’s done little more than look at me and I am undone inside, like a restless, hungry child. He speaks of impulses and all of mine are awakened to clamor for attention. He bids me be still and I ache to move. Every nerve ending serves him and I’m ignorant as to the course of it all. It’s maddening.

She scanned the vague paragraph again about marital bliss, her brow furrowing in concentration. Lady M was proving less than helpful, and if the molten unruly storm of sensations Josiah evoked was any hint of the veiled mysteries between men and women, Eleanor’s logical mind had already accepted that there would be nothing reserved or polite about the matter.

Not if Josiah Hastings were the object of a woman’s affections.

Eleanor sighed and set aside dear Lady M, abandoning the ritual, plunging the room into darkness. After a lifetime of relying on her head, there was nothing more terrifying than realizing that her heart may not have been paying attention to a single word of good advice. “I should endeavor to keep my affections out of this,” she whispered to the shadows.

Her contrary heart answered without hesitation.
I should have let him kiss me. I wanted him to and now I feel like a stupid child for refusing him. It’s all such a mess of pride and principles, and everything that I always believed was clear isn’t anymore.

Because artists were rogues and reckless men without moral principles, given to wild creative abandon—weren’t they? Except Josiah had never demonstrated anything but
respect and restraint, even while admitting his own desire to cross the line.

He had allowed her will to prevail over his, and yielded at the first sign of resistance. There had been no arguments or hurt looks. If he were calculating and maneuvering to seduce her, then Eleanor had to concede his strategy was seamless—and apparently effective.

As she fell asleep, her last thought wasn’t of the man and his rules.

Or even how wonderfully wicked it would be if he’d broken them.

It was to replay the moment when his palette had hit the ground, the colors splattering across the wooden floor, and to recall the lost look that had swept over him.