Thomas shook his head. “One never knows what Gillian is thinking or feeling. At least I never do. Maybe her friends—”
“Weston and Cummings?”
Thomas nodded. “The three—four, including Charles—practically grew up together. I’ve often wondered if they’re among the reasons she hasn’t remarried.”
Richard swirled the brandy in his hand, the pale amber coating the sides of the cheap glass. “I understand her husband had not yet inherited.”
“Bloody piece of bad luck. She deserved better. She does receive an allowance from the family, but it’s not extensive. Mother frets that she won’t accept more. I don’t understand it myself. Gillian rarely speaks of it, but I suspect she would prefer not to take anything at all.”
“I see,” Richard said quietly, remembering her passionate comments last night. Maybe Gillian was simply tired of her family’s charity. For whatever reasons, she obviously wanted this inheritance badly.
“I should be on my way.” Thomas glanced at the new painting. “I gather this isn’t ready for me to take yet?”
“Not quite. It should be completely dry by the end of the week. You can fetch it up then. I expect it to bring enough to pay the staff at Shelbrooke Manor, or what’s left of the staff, for a good three months.”
“You could also invest in a new jacket.” The marquess cast a disdainful glance at the glass in his hand. “And a better bottle of brandy.”
“You don’t seem to mind drinking it.”
“But I do mind. I drink it only to be polite.” He finished the liquor and set the glass on a table.
“The sure sign of a good friend.”
Thomas was indeed his closest in truth his only, friend, as well as his coconspirator. They had known each other from their school days but hadn’t seen much of one another until after Richard’s father had died. Somehow, they’d renewed their acquaintance then and now were as close as brothers.
Etienne had been born three years ago when Richard was at his wits’ end trying to turn a neglected estate into a profitable enterprise. It was in fact Thomas who had originally suggested that Richard attempt to make his secret vice provide the income he sorely needed.
Now, Thomas delivered his paintings to a solicitor who in turn passed them on to a dealer in art. Payment proceeded backwards along the same obscure route. Both men were confident the convoluted process ensured Richard’s continued anonymity.
“And, Thomas, don’t forget this time to take the rent out of whatever is left after the dealer’s commission.”
Thomas rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. This too was an ongoing debate between them. “This place cost me less than what I’d spend on a good horse. I can well afford to—”
“Nonetheless, I will not—”
“I know, I know.” Thomas blew a resigned breath and strode to the door. “Very well. But you could at least permit me to find better quarters for you.”
“This is adequate for my needs. And the light is excellent. Besides,” he grinned, “
I
rather like this
hellhole
. It asks nothing from me.”
It was a single large room encompassing the top floor of a mercantile building in an unfashionable but not disreputable area on the fringe of the city’s business district. The room served both as studio and living quarters and was passable for a man living alone. His sisters and aunt remained in the country at Shelbrooke Manor, but Richard’s work demanded his presence in London. His family had no inkling as to the source of his still meager funds, and he preferred to keep it that way.
Thomas had bought the building without telling Richard, and he insisted that the rent generated by the rest of the edifice had long ago reimbursed him for the purchase price.
“That damnable pride of yours will be the end of you yet, Richard.”
“We shall see.” Richard’s gaze caught his. “I will pay you back for everything one day.”
“I’ve no doubt of that,” Thomas smiled. “I’ve also no doubt you would do the same for me should our positions be reversed.” He opened the door, then turned back, his manner tentative. “So ... how are your finances these days?”
“They’d improve if I could paint faster.” Richard raised a shoulder in a casual shrug, as if it was of no consequence. “I could use a few more commissions, particularly for those portraits that ignore the more unflattering aspects of a face.”
“Exactly why Etienne-Louis will be a success.” Thomas laughed, and Richard joined him.
The friends exchanged a few more comments, and Thomas took his leave.
At once Richard’s spirits dropped. Certainly a sale here would pay one bill, a commission there another, but even with his prices increasing, it was not enough. He raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. It seemed that no matter what he did or how hard he worked, he was not substantially further ahead now than he had been a year ago. Or two. Or five. What he needed was a great deal of money, an influx of funds all at once, not in the piecemeal fashion that so limited him now.
Gillian’s proposal would solve all his problems. But he could never live with her conditions. If they married, it must be a marriage in every sense. Nothing less would serve.
Richard removed the newly completed painting from the easel and leaned it carefully against a wall. Gillian had said she didn’t know if she could fall in love again. Richard didn’t doubt his ability to win the lady’s favors, but there was too much at stake for both of them to risk failure.
It had been a long time since the Earl of Shelbrooke had cut a wide swath through the hearts of the ladies of London. Richard now had no patience for frivolous pursuits and no desire for anything beyond meaningless physical encounters easily obtained and just as easily forgotten. Even so, surely the skills that had enhanced his amorous reputation in his younger days lingered, a bit tarnished, perhaps, from lack of use but there nonetheless.
The outrageous thought that had occurred to him last night still hovered in the back of his mind, yet it was little more than a vague idea and no doubt a poor one at that. Being the rogue he’d once been would not only topple him from her list but change her mind about his suitability as a husband. Richard heaved a heartfelt sigh. Besides, he suspected there was no turning back. His character had come too far, and in truth he regarded who and what he’d been with a certain amount of regret and more than a touch of disgust.
Gillian was no innocent straight from the schoolroom, no on-the-shelf maiden eager for a husband. She would not fall willingly into his embrace under any circumstances. Gillian may well agree to a true marriage out of desire for her legacy, but the idea of a reluctant bride twisted Richard’s stomach. How to convince her otherwise would take a great deal of careful consideration.
Absently, he selected a large, prepared canvas from a stack in the corner and placed it on the easel. What he needed was a plan.
In the meantime, he also needed to work. Nothing helped him think as well as immersion in a new painting, as if the act of creation left a more practical part of his mind free to ponder whatever problem was at hand. And he did need the money. At the moment, he was not substantially closer to six hundred thousand pounds, eight ships, more or less, and a great deal of land in America.
Richard stared at the blank canvas and considered his next project. Landscapes were all the rage, and he would have no trouble selling one. Yet for some odd reason he preferred to do a portrait right now.
And odder still, only one face came to mind.
The incessant pounding echoed through the house.
Gillian stumbled down the front stairway, trying to grip the banister with one hand and hold her wrapper together with the other. Who on earth could be demanding entrance at this hour of the night? She peered through the shadows to the circle of light cast by a candle held by her butler at the front entry.
Wilkins fumbled with the door and muttered dire pronunciations she couldn’t quite make out but had heard before through the years. For the most part, Wilkins was well trained and performed his duties admirably. Unless, of course, he was out of favor with Mrs. Wilkins, Gillian’s cook. Or had indulged in one too many glasses of sherry. Or was awakened in the middle of the night.
He yanked the door open with a vengeance, although no wider than necessary, then appeared to remember his position, stiffening his posture in preparation to look down his nose at whoever had the temerity to rouse them all from a sound sleep. Wilkins was extremely good at looking down his nose and made up in haughtiness what he lacked in stature. The man barely came up to her chin and resembled nothing so much as a stout, arrogant elf.
Gillian paused halfway down the stairs and waited to see if her attention was needed or if she could return to bed. This could be nothing more than a late-night reveler mistaking her door for another. Wilkins’s voice was low, his tone perfectly proper, although she couldn’t catch his words.
He turned from the barely opened door and gazed up at her. “My lady, you have a caller.”
“A caller? At this hour?”
“Shall I tell him you’re not receiving guests?” Wilkins said as if he routinely greeted late-night visitors while wearing his dressing gown and a long nightcap.
“Since he’s behind the door and has obviously heard every word we’ve said, that would be somewhat awkward.” Gillian stifled a yawn and walked down the stairs. “But do find out who it is first.”
“Very well, my lady.” Wilkins sniffed and turned back to the door.
Without warning it swung open, smacking into Wilkins’s rotund figure with a fleshy thud.
“Pardon me, old chap. You should watch where you stand, you know. Do take care.” Shelbrooke brushed past the butler and nodded to her. “Good evening.”
She widened her eyes in disbelief. “Evening was over hours ago. It’s nearly dawn.”
“Is it?” He grinned and ran his fingers through already tousled hair. “Imagine that. I wonder what happened to the night?”
“For most of us it was spent asleep in our beds,” she said sharply.
“In our ... bed?” His gaze met hers, and at once the innocent words were fraught with a far different meaning than she’d intended.
“Beds.” She swallowed hard.
“Isn’t that what I said?” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. His jaw was dark with stubble, and she found it oddly intimate and just a touch exciting.
“No.” Her voice cracked, and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. “You said bed. I said beds— more than one. Each with his own.”
“My mistake.” He brushed his lips across the back of her hand and her stomach fluttered. “I do hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“No, of course not.” His eyes were deep and intense and seemed to beckon her closer. “I couldn’t really sleep anyway.”
“What a shame.” He released her hand, his gaze drifting over her in a far too familiar manner. At once she realized her wrapper hung open and the far too revealing nightrail she wore beneath left little to the imagination.
“What are you doing here?” She backed away, pulling the edges of the robe tighter around her.
“I’ve come to give you my answer.” He smiled, clasped his hands behind his back, and strolled into the parlor.
“Your answer? Now?”
“It’s been on my mind,” he called over his shoulder. “And I suspect it’s the very reason why you were unable to sleep.”
“I scarcely think so.” Goodness, the man certainly made up in arrogance what he lacked in money. She stalked after him. “It was more likely a bit of dinner that disagreed with me. Or I simply might have been too tired to sleep. Or my mattress might have been just a bit—”
“Gillian.” He turned so quickly that she nearly stumbled into him. “I have given your proposal a great deal of thought.”
“And?” Her heart pounded in her chest.
“The biggest impediments to a marriage between us are your conditions, this marriage in name only nonsense, and my refusal to agree to it.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“However, if I recall correctly, it was also your suggestion that we spend the next two months getting to know each other in a sort of trial betrothal, so to speak—”
“I didn’t really—”
“—in hopes that at the end of that time you will have come to the realization that I am not completely repulsive to you—”
“I never said you were repulsive!”
“Forgive me, what I meant to say was that sharing my bed was not completely repulsive to you. That is more accurate, is it not?”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “No.”
“I see.” He raised a brow. “Then you have changed your mind and you are ready to be my wife in every sense the title implies.”
“No!” He cast her a questioning look. She shook her head impatiently. “Botheration, my lord, you have me completely confused.”
“Do I?” He looked rather pleased with himself.
“Yes, you do.” She turned away, squeezed her eyes closed, and pressed two fingers between her eyebrows to a point just above the bridge of her nose in an effort to stave off the dull throb she knew would begin any moment.
“Does your head ache?” Sympathy sounded in his voice.
“Not yet,” she snapped, “but I expect it will shortly.”
“Allow me.” She sensed him moving nearer behind her, and before she could say a word, an easy touch settled on each of her temples.
She jumped and snapped her eyes open. “What are you—”
“I’m trying to help you,” he said, pulling her back gently. “Relax, Gillian.” His fingers moved in slow, easy circles on her head. “I do promise not to bite.”
“I was not particularly worried about you biting,” she murmured and kept her back straight to avoid leaning against him.
“Pity.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “There was a time when women worried about my bite and much more. Apparently, I have reformed.”
“I know.” He certainly did have wonderful hands. “I know everything about you.”
“Everything?”
“Everything that’s important.” She tilted her head to give him better access.
“Do you?”
“Of course. I would never approach a man about something as important as marriage without knowing all I could about him.” Still, she had no idea he could do anything like this. Her eyes drifted closed.
“That would be foolish.”
“Um-hmm.” It was difficult to form a coherent sentence. She wondered if her very bones would dissolve from his touch.
“Does your head feel better?”
“Um-hmm.” She relaxed, leaning lightly against him, and surrendered to the remarkable feel of his fingers on her face.
“I’m pleased I could be of assistance.” His voice was low against her ear. In some part of her mind not fogged with the pleasure of his touch she realized he’d bent his head closer, noted the intimate nature of their stance and how very easy it would be for this reformed rake to kiss her neck, her shoulders, her ...
“Now then.” He dropped his hands and stepped away so abruptly that she struggled to keep her balance. A vague sense of disappointment washed through her. She ignored it and drew a steadying breath. “About our arrangement.”
“Ah yes, you said you’d made a decision.” She turned toward him. “And what...” He hadn’t moved as far as she’d thought. In fact, he was less than a step away, far and away too close, and her eyes were level with his mouth. A rather nice mouth, actually, with lips full and firm and probably quite warm. Definitely a rake’s mouth—reformed or not. How many women had that mouth kissed? Caressed?
Pleasured
?
“Gillian?” A hint of a smile curved his lips as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
She jerked her gaze to his and barely noted the breathless note in her voice. “Yes?”
At once the amusement in his gaze vanished, and he stared down at her as if he’d never seen her before, his eyes dark and intense and as compelling as his lips. An unfamiliar ache rose inside her. She could lose her soul in those eyes. Surrender it for the feel of his arms around her. Sacrifice it for the taste of his lips upon hers.
“Gillian?” His voice was strained, as if he knew the longing that gripped her and shared it.
“Richard, I...” She swallowed. “I...”
“I think perhaps we shall suit well together as husband and wife.”
“Your wife.” Richard’s wife.
Charles’s wife.
Guilt, strong and fast and hard, swept through her, catching at her chest with the impact of a physical blow. She gasped and jerked back.
“Gillian, what—”
She wrapped her arms around herself, whirled, and crossed the room, fighting off a mounting sense of panic. How could she even think of betraying the one man she’d ever loved? Always loved? Other men had kissed her in the years since her husband’s death, but their advances had been neither welcomed nor encouraged. But never, ever had she wanted a man’s kiss—or desired his touch. Or needed his arms around her.
“Gillian?” Caution edged Richard’s voice.
She drew a deep breath and willed a calm she did not feel, then turned to face him with an aloof smile, as if the intimate moment between them had never happened.
“So, my lord,” she said brightly, “your decision?”
He narrowed his eyes and studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment. She forced herself to meet his gaze directly.
“Very well. While I had not been in the market for a wife it is past time I wed. In addition, I would be a fool not to admit how much this legacy of yours would improve my circumstances in life. Therefore I am willing to ... to ...” He shook his head, a bemused expression on his face. “
Court
doesn’t seem quite the appropriate word.”
“Nonetheless, I do understand,” she said quickly.
“And you understand the only terms under which a marriage between us will take place?”
She raised her chin and kept her voice firm. “I do.”
“Excellent. There is, however, one additional condition.” He paused as if considering his words. “Should we decide, at the end of the allotted time, not to wed, with you thus forfeiting your inheritance, essentially I will be left with nothing.”
“As will I,” she said curtly.
“Yes, well you’re not quite as desperate for funds as I am, are you? After all, you do have a wealthy family that can come to your aid if necessary.”
Irritation rose within her. “I prefer not to rely on my family.”
“As you wish, but the option remains should you choose to take advantage of it. I, on the other the hand, can ill afford to spend the next two months attempting to seduce you—”
“
Seduce
me?”
“What would you call it?”
She frowned in annoyance. “I believe we agreed on
court
.”
“Not entirely accurate,” he murmured.
“Nor is it as explicit, but I do favor it over the alternative.”
“Regardless of what we wish to term it, the end result is the same—either we marry and gain the legacy or we don’t and I am left with nothing for my time and trouble.”
“I do hope it will not be as unpleasant for you as all that.” She pulled her brows together in annoyance. “You’re not suggesting I compensate you for your time? Pay you perhaps?”
“Not at all.” An injured note rang in his words.
Surely she hadn’t offended him? Why, she was the one who should be offended. The very idea that she would have to hire someone to seduce—court— her was absurd and rude and—
“I’m insulted you would suggest such a thing.”
“You’re insulted?” She stared with disbelief.
“Indeed I am. If I was the kind of man who expected to be paid for seducing you—”
“You won’t be seducing me!”
“—then I wouldn’t be at all the kind of man who would be at the top of your list.” He raised a brow. “Would I?”
“No! Of course not. At least I don’t think so. Blast it all, you’ve done it again!” The expected throbbing pulsed above the bridge of her nose and she rubbed it vigorously.
He stepped toward her. “Would you like me to—”
“No!” She thrust out her hand and stepped back. The last thing she needed was to add the confusion triggered by his touch to the confusion brought on by his words. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Very well” Again he hesitated. “Since you claim to know all there is to know about me you are no doubt aware that I am the sole support of four sisters. All but one is of marriageable age, the eldest especially should have been wed long ago. It is my fault, I know, but there has been no money for dowries. Nor is there much opportunity in the country to make a suitable match.”