The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (4 page)

Lord knows, his image
was stamped indelibly in her mind’s eye, but a finished picture
would be of more use to the authorities.

Back in the guest room,
their unwanted visitor hadn’t moved. He remained as still as a dead
man. From the corner, she dragged an antique rocking chair nearer to
the bed. Better to sit on hard wood than on the cushioned armchair,
if she wanted to stay awake.

Despite the fire, the
room was still chilly. As she placed the unwieldy chair by the bed,
the intruder’s breathing hitched.

Was he waking? She
panicked for a few moments. What should she do? Say?

She stood frozen, on
tenterhooks, ready to react. Anxious seconds passed. He didn’t
budge… remained unaware. She sat. Her legs were trembling. She
pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, for comfort as much as
for warmth.

How had her plans to
start her
real
life,
gone so wrong? It had seemed simple, prior to leaving Evesham. Yet,
tonight’s drama was just the cherry-topping on the cake. So far,
her visit to London was a disaster.

To think she’d been
preparing for this trip for almost eight years now. Ever since Great
Aunt Ida died and left her and her two sisters, Venetia and Milana,
generous competencies. Aunt Ida wanted the girls to be protected from
the destitution that always lurked around the next corner, due to
their parents’ profligacy. Whenever money came in from the sale of
one of her famous father’s artwork, the family embarked on a flurry
of extravagant spending.

Ida’s legacy was
meant to give the girls some security. Now, her sisters were well
married, and didn’t have to worry about their own survival anymore.
They’d both chosen husbands well able to provide for them.

She, on the other hand,
had no intention of ever marrying. She wanted no man — especially
no artist — to have control over her or her money. She’d been
saving her competency for years to have the chance to pursue her own
artistic career, independent of everyone. Unfortunately, as a result
of her twin brothers’ deceit, her well laid plans were in a bit of
a mess at the moment.

With several deft
motions, her hand outlined the shape of the intruder’s face.
Grimacing, she remembered how appalled she’d been the first time
she realized she had the family gift. At the age of nine, it had
seemed more of a curse.

Aunt Ida was the one
who had discovered it. Tally had begged her not to tell any one. Just
thinking of her great aunt made her heart swell with affection and
loss. That wonderful woman had understood and had convinced Monsieur
Antoine Moreau, an art teacher, artist in his own right, and art
agent for Tally’s father in Britain, to travel to Evesham once a
month to teach her in secret. All three of them kept her talent a
secret, especially from her own family.

Monsieur was happy to
do it. He had a lot for which to be grateful to Aunt Ida. They met
through Tally’s father, Wendal Lawton, who studied art in Paris
with Antoine years earlier. Ida helped house and launch the French
painter when he first fled the revolution taking place in his home
country. She’d helped him start his career, as teacher and agent
here in England, and there was not much he wouldn’t do for her.

Monsieur and her aunt
both recognized that Tally’s talent was great, perhaps the greatest
of all the Lawton’s. Monsieur agreed with Aunt Ida that the
inevitable competition among family members would not be helpful to
Tally in honing her craft and he helped her, by sneaking her artwork
out of the house and storing it at his studio until she was ready to
launch her career.

Well, now, she was.
Ready, that is.

She turned to the next
clean page and began a second effort from a different angle. She
lifted her head to glance at the man and gasped.

Her charcoal pencil
dropped to the floor, but she was frozen in place, unable to pick it
up. All she could do was stare into the man’s opened eyes, while he
stared right back at her.

Even from across the
room, his gaze seemed penetrating, as if he could read the secrets of
her soul.

It seemed ages, though
it was probably only a matter of seconds, before his eyes slowly shut
and those thick, paintbrush lashes fanned peacefully back onto his
cheeks once again.

She exhaled on a quiet
gasp. Her hands were shaking as she bent and picked up the charcoal.
It was odd. He hadn’t seemed to be really awake despite his staring
eyes.

Plying her pencil
again, she went back to ruminating on how this whole venture to
London had been ill-fated from the start. Her brothers deceit had
seriously depleted her money before she even started out. She and
Foster arrived unusually late that first night. The coach ride had
been exceedingly slow due to the muddy state of the roads caused by
all the rain they’d experienced this past month. They were dismayed
to find the key didn’t fit the lock in the house Monsieur Moreau
had rented for them. They found a small window opened at the back
and, not wanting to bother him at his home so late, Tally risked
climbing into the house. She kept expecting to be caught and
denounced, but luck was with them, for that little infraction, at
least. From that point on, though, their luck had gone downhill.

There was the important
matter of being unable to find Monsieur Moreau despite making almost
daily trips to his studio. He’d known to expect her. He’d found
this house for her, yet there was no sign of him.

Finally, there were
those “accidents” that kept occurring. She’d almost been run
over, in one case, and had narrowly avoided a nasty blow to her head
by a falling crate, in another.

Foster was positive
they were deliberate. She hadn’t thought so, but now, tonight, here
she was, involved in another worrying situation.

She held the charcoal
poised above the paper. This sketch, her third, she’d begin with
his nose — a strong, proud proboscis. Her hand flew across the page
and soon she was darkening his chin lines and adding his full lower
lip.

Their intruder had a
compelling face, with forceful features. She imagined those large,
almond-shaped eyes must cause many a young lady’s heart to flutter.
They were framed by long straight eyelashes that might have looked
effeminate, had his face been any less compelling, but seemed instead
to accentuate his blatant masculinity.

Her mind wandered away
from his features and back to her earlier conjectures. Certain
someone was trying to harm her, Foster was now convinced this man had
climbed in her window for that very purpose.

But why would he want
to hurt her? She’d never met or even seen this man before in her
life. She’d have remembered his face and a spectacular body like
his, with broad shoulders and powerful legs, the likes of which she’d
only seen in sculptures of Jupiter, King of the Roman deities.
Quite…um…unforgettable, really.

She drew her shawl
closer around her once more, then used her index finger to smudge in
shadows beneath his high cheek bones in her sketch.

The question was how
was she going to maintain her anonymity if this intruder, didn’t
waken and she was obliged to fetch a physician?

Being inconspicuous was
not achieved by shooting a man in one’s bedroom!

His eyelids felt glued
shut.

He tried opening them.
They were heavy, as if someone had put pennies on the lids to weigh
them down.

Surely
they didn’t think he was dead!

A few desperate tries
later, they opened… just.

From behind barely
opened slits, he cast his gaze around. Pale yellow walls, a window to
his right... he caught a whiff of lavender but could see no flowers
about. It looked much like any other room. Vaguely familiar, no
distinguishing features, nothing to cause the sense of disquiet
slowly seeping into his consciousness.

His mind drifted for a
time.

He must have slept some
more, for when he awoke again, the brightness he’d awakened to
earlier had faded. He thought it might be dusk. His head felt thick
and dull, as if it was wrapped in cotton wool.

A lamp cast a gentle
glow around the room. He caught more of that lavender scent… then,
a rasping sound. Someone was sitting nearby, in a rocking chair,
creaking back and forth.

Closing his mind to
that for the moment, he took stock of himself and his surroundings.
He felt like death. His head was numb, as if only half there. And he
felt queasy. If there’d been anything in his stomach, he’d have
lost it.

What
the hell had happened to him and where the deuce was he?

He wasn’t sure he
could muster the strength to turn his head and see where the
rocking-chair was or who was in it. He kept his eyes closed, thinking
to settle his stomach a little first. He listened to the fidgety
sounds of the chair, not rocking in a smooth motion but sawing and
scraping as its sitter moved about in it.

Curiosity urged him to
roll his heavy head sideways to try to see who the squirmy person
sitting there was. Things shifted inside his head. Like glass
breaking, only softly, silently, as if at a distance. He stifled a
groan. A puce, patterned carpet came into view, then green slippers
on small, dainty feet. A woman. His gaze took the easiest route up
the front of her dressing gown to her face. A beauty. But he didn’t
recognize her. Who was she?

Surely he would
remember that gypsy hair and creamy white skin, if he’d seen them
before. What was she doing in this bedroom with him? She didn’t
look like his usual mode of female entertainment. She had the
untouched look of a maiden. Lord, he’d better get her out of here
fast!

But he felt as
cumbersome as lead. He couldn’t budge. Damn but his brain was
muddled. Glancing listlessly about, he again fixed his gaze on her
dressing gown. He liked that green. He searched for the exact name of
that tint.

Abandoning the attempt,
his gaze lingered appreciatively on her delicate neck and inky black
hair. Its thickness was held back from her face with twin combs. The
natural wave made it dance on her shoulders when she moved.

Trying not to invite
her attention just yet, he slowly let his slitted gaze move up to her
face. This time, it was not the woman’s beauty he noticed first. It
was the total absorption in her task that drew his attention. What
was she doing? She brought a pencil to rest on her lips while she
contemplated something she was holding in her lap.

Watching her almost
made him forget his foggy head, which felt like a balloon, a fragile
one. If he moved it, it might burst.

Her eyes remained
firmly cast downward. What captivated her interest so? She was gazing
intently at some kind of book on her knee.

Why, she was sketching…
and in very poor light indeed.

She lifted her head. He
shut his eyes. He pondered... then realization dawned. He cracked
open his lids carefully in case she was still looking up.
She
was sketching him!

She mustn’t be
drawing his face or she’d have noticed his eyes flickering.

Hell! He shut his eyes
again. Hot embarrassment flooded every part of his body. His hand
skimmed swiftly down his body.
Thank
God!
He was fully covered!

He squinted, wanting to
watch her for awhile before letting her know he was awake. Something
was bothering him. Something was wrong, but he was having a hard time
concentrating on what it could be. Something on the periphery of his
mind was nagging at him.

Did she draw his
funeral picture? That idea startled a sound of dismay from him.
Worried she’d notice, he tried to turn his head away but a sudden,
sharp pain stopped him. He groaned involuntarily, alerting his
solitary audience.

Her head shot up. Their
gazes locked for what seemed like eons before she lowered her sketch
book onto the small table beside her and rose to approach the bed.

She seemed uneasy,
almost reluctant.

His hand went to his
head. His bandaged head! He was injured? What was going on here? He
had no recollection of being hurt.

He followed the young
lady’s every step as she moved towards him. Who was she?

He had no idea. He
pressed his hand to his head, willing his brain to work.

Her eyes, which cast
about nervously as she approached, finally met his and, instantly, he
was drowning in the deepest, darkest brown he’d ever seen. Even if
he was having trouble recalling much of anything else, he was quite
sure of that.

They gazed at each
other for several long, silent moments before she shook her head and
summoned a voice. “So, you’re awake.”

She glanced around
anxiously. As though she wished to be anywhere but there. No doubt
realizing the futility of it, she assumed a patently false, calm
face. “How are you feeling?”

Her voice was light and
melodic. Her quiet smile reassured him, though he noticed she kept a
wary distance from him.

Who was this woman? Was
she here to nurse him back to health? From what?

Her eyes darted about.
She was uneasy. Was this little beauty worried about him? Was she
his?

His mind groped through
his confused brain in vain. He tried to move his hand to reach for
hers, but somehow the message from his mind to his hand never made
it.

She acted as though she
didn’t trust him.

Sending that disturbing
thought into the dark recesses of his mind, he focused on her face.

It was the face of a
serious-minded woman, he decided. She was young. The absence of lines
beside her eyes and mouth told him that, but it also showed him she
wasn’t given much to laughter or smiles. Her eyes were worried and
wary, no matter how much she tried to school them to impassivity.
Why?