The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection (72 page)

Baneshire closed his eyes and moaned.

“For you to stand here and lie to me without a shiver of remorse, it chills my blood. It’s impossible for me to believe that you wouldn’t know the man’s name. He wouldn’t have been able to paint such a painting unless you’d willingly posed for him…like a bloody whore. Damnation, I can’t abide to be in the same room with you.”

He marched toward the door and stopped just before his hand touched the knob, his shoulders cinching with tension. “Your husband,” he whispered. “Were the rumors about his perversions true?”

“No,” she said. Not precisely a lie. Her husband’s rages were sadistic, much worse than what any of the gossipy members of the
ton
could ever imagine.

“Then why, Elsbeth? Why did you do this?”

To that she had no answer her uncle would be willing to believe. She had lied too well for too long to expect him to believe the truth now.

* * * *

Dionysus lit a solitary candle before turning the brass key in the cellar door’s heavy lock. He used his shoulder to jar the swollen door from the rotting jam and then raised the candle, shedding a flickering light into the cavernous space. Not enough light for someone unfamiliar with the uneven stairway. Yet he knew each stone step well. With a quick stride he nearly flew down the last steps. He’d come, not to paint, but to gaze on his latest work—his obsession—his madness.

Her smiling lips, her haunting eyes, her golden hair were forever imprinted in his mind. Those delicate features, perfection in the form of womanhood.

And still he didn’t know her name.

She was the Earl of Baneshire’s niece. But Baneshire came from a rather large family, and so did his wife. She could be the daughter of any number of the respected families populating the
ton
.

She’d been married and must have loved her husband dearly. The pain shadowed in those eyes could only be borne from great suffering. Terrible sadness.

Dionysus knew such pain. If only she could peer into his eyes, she’d recognize a fellow, suffering creature. And perhaps, her soft, upstanding gaze could heal.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. The lovely image of her—the one he called Perfection—swirled into view.

A flash of a memory.

Nearly a decade ago he was a young man just completing his studies at Oxford, tall and lanky, still shy and uncertain of his own power. When the weather was pleasant, he would escape Merton College just as the sun rose and hide among the trees near the Iffley water mill, trying to capture in oil and canvas the elusive slant of light of the sun’s golden rays as they skidded off the mill pond’s glassy surface. With the wooded hills and lush pastures forming a gentle bucolic backdrop, he once believed he’d never find another subject that could keep his artistic attentions so enthralled.

But that was before
she
walked into the scene.

A young woman still dressed for the schoolroom, she’d gathered her wide skirts into her hands and dashed across the grassy field. Two matrons, one clearly a lady aunt or mother, chased after the child. The girl’s golden locks tumbled free from the pins and flowed freely in the gentle breeze.

His breath caught in his throat. It took no great feat of artistic talent to recognize the budding woman, hovering oh so near to sweet ripeness, in the schoolgirl. Given a year or two, she would be married.

He gulped at the thought and swung away with those uncomfortably long arms of his and crashed into his easel. His paints and brushes scattered onto the dew-moistened grass.

“Damn and blast,” he muttered as he dipped to his knees and started gathering up his mess, all the while praying the women wouldn’t spot him, praying that if they did, they wouldn’t come over to speak to him.

If that young beauty came over and turned her sapphire gaze toward him…His heart hammered painfully enough in his chest at the mere thought of speaking to her.

He glanced up. The girl was still sprinting across the field, her long legs carrying her as gracefully as a young doe. She waved a bouquet of yellow flowers in the air and danced circles in front of her harried-faced guardians.

“So this is where you sneak off to every morning, Pole.” Hubert, a thick bully who lived for the day he’d be able to take his father’s title, punched Dionysus in the arm with such force the paintbrushes tumbled to the ground again.

Dionysus rose. He wiped at the grass stains on his breeches and maneuvered himself in front of the painting he’d been laboring over. “Leave off, Hubert. A man’s entitled to some time away.”

Hubert tossed back his head and boomed a laugh. “What are you trying to hide there, Pole?” He pushed Dionysus aside with a meaty paw and crossed his arms as he studied the painting.

Dionysus gasped when he saw it himself. In the center of the unfinished landscape the beginnings of the dancing schoolgirl’s face had appeared. His hand, without his mind’s permission, had captured but a fraction of her beauty.

Hubert looked out over the field and quickly spotted the sensuous phantasm. She was laying out a blanket among a throng of wildflowers. His lips quirked up into a grin.

“I didn’t realize you indulged in, in—what would your uncle call it?—in a female’s talent, Pole,” he said as his gaze remained trained on the young woman. He licked his wide lips. “I certainly can’t fault you in your choice of subjects, though. Zounds, that chit would make a man of my ilk a mighty fine wife.” His grin grew by wolfish proportions.

“I-I can’t imagine what you mean. I only paint landscapes. The child intruded into my work, that is all,” he protested, though Hubert’s interest had already been turned.

“Child? She’s sixteen, if not a day,” Hubert said, and snatched the wet painting from the easel.

“Hand that back!”

“If you don’t want your uncle learning of this frivolous pursuit of yours, you’ll do as I demand,” Hubert said.

His uncle’s efforts to forcefully mold Dionysus into a hard, no-nonsense man—the exact opposite of his dreamy father—were common knowledge at Merton College. The blood drained away from his head at the thought of pricking his uncle’s ire. He backed down and stood unmanned, silently cursing his bloody weaknesses and his wretched fear of his uncle, as he watched Hubert swagger toward the bevy of women, the wet painting swinging in his paws.

More than eight years later, his heart still thundered, his breath still fled at the thought of speaking to the lovely angel Hubert had so boldly approached that spring morning. But he didn’t need to speak to her, for he now possessed the painting. He crossed the dimly lit workroom to his pile of discarded canvases where he’d hidden it away from anyone’s eyes but his.

Tossing the canvases aside, one by one his muscles grew taut, eager to drink in the view of her rose-petal lips and her creamy body.

He lifted the last of the canvases and stared at the bare, stone floor. “What trickery is this?” he whispered, dragging both his hands through his hair. He tugged at the strands until his scalp burned. “Where is she?”

His mind raced, his chest constricted, frightened to consider the possibilities. His painting—the proof of his madness was gone.

Someone must have found it.

Taken it.

* * * *

It had taken only two days for the
ton
’s censure to fall on the entire Baneshire household, confirming Elsbeth’s worst fears. Because of her position as chaperone to Baneshire’s daughters, not one member of the
ton
dared send an invitation for fear of her inadvertent attendance. And yesterday, Sir Donald Gilforth had paid a call to Lauretta. She’d been expecting him to propose marriage. But instead, he coldly broke off their relationship, announcing that in light of Elsbeth’s scandal, he needed to think of his unmarried sisters’ reputations. And that he didn’t dare let his name continue to be associated with theirs. Elsbeth decided right then and there that something drastic had to be done to remedy this disaster. And soon.

Early in the afternoon the very next day, Elsbeth hastily departed from the Baneshire town house. None of the servants raised an eyebrow or questioned the wisdom of her venturing out alone on foot with only her oilskin cape for protection from the freezing rain.

She curled icy fingers into a pair of tight fists. Dionysus, whoever that rogue turned out to be, would soon regret the day he sought to ruin her. He would pay for the humiliation he’d served her while hiding like a coward in the night. She hadn’t lied to her uncle. She didn’t know Dionysus’s true identity…but she knew someone who might.

A cold wind whipped a stinging rain against her face. She tugged at her cape, pulling the fabric close to her body. Trying to ignore the water soaking through her thinly soled half boots, she marched down the street, head lowered, toward what surely would be considered improper behavior.

She was about to visit a bachelor in his home.

If her reputation were not already in tatters and Lauretta’s heart not already smashed to pieces, she would have never considered such an outrageous course of action.

* * * *

“What is it now, Graves?” Severin asked his butler who’d appeared once again in the doorway. The baron had spent the afternoon sequestered behind closed doors in his shabby study, working desperately to keep one step ahead of his creditors. The constant patter of rain against the windowpane confirmed that the weather outside continued to be dreadful. For a day when any sane man or woman should be huddling beside a blazing fire, he couldn’t imagine why his study was becoming as busy as a fashionable tearoom.

“There is a woman demanding entrance, my lord,” Graves announced in a tone that made Severin wonder if his butler had recently gotten a whiff of some truly awful scent.

“Send her in,” he said, without glancing up from the piles of ledgers on his desk.

“But-but, my lord,” Graves stammered in a most uncommon manner. “The lady is unescorted. I shall send her away.”

“Send her away?
An unescorted woman?
Graves, I am shocked. You know I have a reputation to keep. By all means send the woman directly up—and be sure the neighborhood witnesses my thoroughly debauched behavior.”

“Very good, my lord,” Graves said flatly.

A few moments later the doors to the study again slid open. Severin set down his pen and waited to see who his mysterious visitor could be. The dowager Lady Buckley had been making bold passes of late and had hinted that she was looking for a new lover. Would she be so brash as to appear on his doorstep in the middle of the day? Her coffers were overflowing and her face still lovely. He could dearly make use of such a combination.

He sat forward in his leather chair and watched as a slender figure, still cloaked, entered the room. A heavy hood shadowed her face. Water dripped from her hem, staining his bright red Axminster rug, a rug he could ill-afford to have ruined.

“Graves!” he shouted. “Graves! Where is your head? Take the lady’s cloak straightaway. And fetch a pot of tea.”

The butler returned, his back ramrod straight. “Aye, my lord.”

Severin took to his feet and crossed the room while the lady allowed Graves to help her shed her sodden cloak. “Please,” he said, and let a seductive smile curl his lips. “Stand with me by the fire. I daresay your bones must be chilled through and through.”

She turned toward him. There was no matching smile in sight. The heat in her gaze damned well burned him.

Severin’s rakish grin froze on his face. Shock—that was what had done this to him.

What in blazes was
she
doing here? The Marquess of Edgeware, after blistering Severin’s ears for having displayed the scandalous painting without his knowledge or permission, had promised to set things right. Dionysus was, after all, Edgeware’s responsibility. Severin had spent more money than he could afford already when he’d dispatched a messenger to the Marquess of Edgeware’s estate a few hours after the unfortunate unveiling. Severin’s responsibility had ended there. Or so he’d hoped.

“Lady Mercer, this-this is indeed a surprise.” He motioned again to the fire. “Please, take a moment to warm yourself.”

The bright peacock and white striped promenade dress made from the thinnest muslin fabric complemented her winter-pinked cheeks and rosy lips. Her golden hair, swept up away from her slender neck, formed a halo of silky curls on the top of her head.

“This is by no means a social call.” She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I am here on an important matter of business.”

“Indeed,” he said.

He leaned against the hearth and watched her slender fingers tug at the damp woolen gloves, struggling to peel them off. After a few moments, she gave up and with a huff turned her attentions instead to the contents of the rather plain reticule hanging from her wrist.

Severin stepped forward, concerned she was about to produce a revolver.

“Actually, two matters of business,” she said, as she retrieved a silken purse from the reticule. “I don’t possess a great fortune. And I cannot take an advance in my quarterly income without my uncle’s knowledge.”

She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “I wish to purchase the painting.” A blush brightened her cheeks. “The painting of me.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but that would be quite impossible.”

“I am more than willing to pay your price.” There was a compelling strength in her tone. But when she held up the silk sack, clearly heavy with coins, he saw that her fingers were shaking. “You
must
sell it to me.”

Fearing she was on the verge of collapse, Severin rushed to her side and led her to a chair near the fire. He kept a tight grasp on her damp hands as he freed the silk coin purse from her fingers and laid it on her lap. “I am sorry, but the painting is no longer available.”

“Oh dear,” she whispered. “I hadn’t considered that possibility.”

She looked up quickly. “Provide me the name of the buyer. I must have the painting. I simply must. Certainly you can understand why.”

Severin returned to the large fireplace. “Forgive me,” he said. He kept his back to her, unable to face the anger that darkened her sparkling blue eyes. “I gave my word as a gentleman that I would never reveal the buyer’s name.”