An Artful Seduction (16 page)

It had been quite a while since Eliza had indulged herself at Gunter’s. The confectioner’s clientele consisted of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen. Gunter’s was one of the only establishments that a gentleman could be seen with a lady and not harm a woman’s reputation. During the summer months it was customary for patrons to eat the treats outside, and waiters would run through traffic to deliver frozen ice cream or ices before they could melt. But it was still winter and people sat at tables and chairs enjoying the treats inside the shop.

Sara shifted in her seat and craned her neck to see a family seated across the shop. “I see Miss Abigail Evers, my school friend. May I go speak with her?”

“Of course,” Grayson said.

Sara stood and kissed his cheek. “I’m so glad you decided to come with us,” she said, then rushed off with her lemon ice in hand to speak and enjoy her treat with her friend.

Grayson turned his gaze on Eliza. “The weather has given us a reprieve. People have seized the opportunity to leave their homes. I take it the Peacock Print Shop has seen some business?”

Eliza bit her bottom lip to prevent a smile. He’d delivered the question offhandedly, but she knew his true purpose behind the question. “Yes. But the weather is not the only reason the shop is busy and you know it.”

“Oh?”

“Have you read the article in the
Times?”

“I haven’t read the newspaper this morning,” he said.

Eliza opened her reticule, pulled out a folded newspaper sheet, and held it out to him. “You should. You are portrayed quite favorably in the article.” He glanced at the newspaper in her hand, but made no move to take it from her.

“Are you surprised by the article?” he asked.

“No. What does surprise me is the number of new customers who have asked for my opinion on what painting they should buy,” she said.

Humor lit his eyes. “I’ve never doubted your good taste, Eliza.”

She laughed. “You’re outrageous.”

Grayson set down his empty ice cream bowl and spoon and looked at her. “Thank you for inviting Sara.”

“She’s a delightful young lady. You should spend more time with her. She misses you.”

“She told you that?” he asked.

“In so many words.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You feel responsible.”

“I do. I will do right by her when the time comes for her first Season.”

Eliza hesitated, unsure exactly how to phrase her thoughts. “Be sure to do what’s right for her and not what you think is best.”

His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Eliza gazed down at her lemon ice before looking up at him. “I never realized before today, but we have something in common when it comes to our younger siblings. I’ve been looking after my sisters since our parents have gone.”

“Your father isn’t dead.”

“True, but he’s not in our lives either.”

They’d never have closure wondering what happened to him. She wasn’t the only one disturbed by it. Amelia might say she didn’t care, but Eliza suspected she dabbled with forgeries as a way to be close to her father. Chloe was overly fond of the male species, and Eliza believed she kept looking for a father figure.

Eliza lowered her spoon. “What I mean to say is that I understand how you feel. Amelia is impulsive. Chloe naive about men. I’ve always felt that I must do right by them, but perhaps I’ve been going about it all wrong. They must choose their future paths for themselves.”

“You’re making no sense. What does any of this have to do with Sara?” Grayson asked.

Eliza hesitated. She’d promised to keep Sara’s secret about Mr. Samuel Neal. But she’d never said she wouldn’t mention the duke’s son. She could still help a little, couldn’t she?

“Sara talked about a certain duke’s son. Someone you prefer for her,” Eliza prodded.

“Yes, the Duke of Trent’s son is an excellent choice.”

“Perhaps. But you must make sure your choice is hers.”

He stayed silent for so long she feared she’d gone too far to interfere with the raising of his sister. But then he held her gaze. “Sara’s getting attached to you, isn’t she? It’s easy to do.”

What did that mean? “I don’t mean to meddle, my lord.”

He leaned forward and touched her hand. His expression stilled and grew serious as he studied her face unhurriedly, feature by feature. “What if I tell you I don’t mind? I like it.”

Her pulse quickened at his admission. She tried to quench the dizzying current racing through her at his intense perusal. Not sure how to answer, she pulled her hand away and picked up her spoon.

“How were your fittings?” he asked.

She glanced up. Thankfully this was a topic she felt comfortable discussing. “They went well. The gown will be ready for the Pickens ball.”

“I was willing to attend with you,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’ve a confession. I wanted to see you again and I didn’t want to wait until the ball.”

The intense look in his eyes combined with his words left her momentarily speechless. She lowered her gaze and swirled the melting lemon ice with her spoon.

“You must not say such things. We agreed to a working relationship.” She swallowed the last remaining spoonful of ice. The sugar now seemed overly sweet on her tongue.

He lowered his voice. “I tried not to think of you, but to no avail. I want to kiss you.”

She choked on her ice. Gunter’s may be the only place they could be seen together without fear of damaging her reputation, but not if he kissed her. The sparks were flying as it was, and Eliza feared anyone who glanced at them was certain to see the attraction between them.

Her gaze dropped to his perfect lips. How could she look at him without imaging his kiss? If they were alone, she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

“We shouldn’t associate with each other until the viscount’s ball.” Her mind floundered with something that would distract her from his hot stare. “Perhaps we should discuss our strategy for that night.”

“Not here,” he said.

“When?”

“I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“Attending Gunter’s with your sister is one thing. But it’s unwise for us to continue to be seen publicly together,” she said.

“There’s a quiet establishment where we could dine. I know the proprietor and the fare is excellent. I will arrange for us to have a private room.”

She thought of Amelia’s advice to enjoy what life offered. But she wasn’t an artist who could fling worries aside and live and paint with abandon. She wasn’t Chloe, who lost her head when she first gazed upon a handsome face. She was Mrs. Somerton, a respectable shopkeeper on Bruton Street.

The truth was she was thankful for all Grayson had done, but she was also scared. She couldn’t afford to fall in love with him, and she knew that she risked the emotion if she continued to spend more time with him. What would that gain her but a broken heart?

Grayson was an earl, the type of man who married a wealthy, titled heiress, but certainly not the daughter of his enemy.

At the same time, logic told her they needed to discuss what would happen at the ball. She was unsure of her role and how Grayson planned to find the stolen Rembrandt in the viscount’s large mansion.

“When?” she found herself asking.

“Tonight. Expect my carriage at seven.”

Chapter Nineteen

Grayson and Eliza were greeted warmly at the Foxwood Arms. The proprietor, Nicholas Foxwood, had been expecting Grayson and shook his hand as soon as they entered the establishment. Grayson had helped Foxwood’s brother when he’d been a fledging artist. The brother was now painting portraits of wealthy merchants and Foxwood had been grateful to Grayson ever since.

They were led to a cozy private room. A fire burned brightly in the grate and a waiter opened a bottle of the inn’s finest wine and filled their glasses. Eliza sipped the wine and watched Grayson from across the rim of her glass. Sharp cheekbones slanted across his face, and as he leaned slightly forward in his chair, his jacket stretched taut across his broad shoulders. His body was lean and hard, and she vividly recalled being pressed against his chest in the carriage ride home from the Royal Academy.

“You must try the turtle soup. It’s a specialty here,” he said.

A flutter of nerves swam low in her belly as she sat across from him. She doubted she could eat much tonight. She’d known Grayson for little more than a month and she’d never dreamed she would be seated in a private parlor sharing an intimate meal with him. They’d started off as enemies and now they were…

What exactly were they?

Allies to retrieve a stolen Rembrandt? Or on opposite sides when it came to finding her father?

It was all so confusing. Her attraction for the man heightened those feelings and put her in a precarious situation.

She drank more, and he attentively refilled her glass. She knew she shouldn’t imbibe too much, but the fine wine went down smoothly and warmed her blood and eased her nerves.

The waiter delivered the first course, a steaming turtle soup. He served it from a silver tureen and quietly withdrew. Eliza picked up her spoon, dipped it in her bowl, and tasted it. The perfect blend of spices made the warm soup mouth-watering.

“Umm,” she said, her eyelids fluttering closed. “It’s absolutely delicious.”

She opened her eyes and found Grayson’s gaze intently focused on her face. A familiar shiver of awareness ran through her.

“Watching you savor the food gives me pleasure,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

Eliza caught her breath. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Why not? I forgot how good the food is until watching you enjoy it.”

“It sounds like I simply amuse you.”

“It’s not simple amusement, Eliza. The truth is I find everything refreshingly new when I’m with you. Most shockingly, even artwork.”

Oh, my.
She’d never expected him to make such an admission. She reached for her glass and swallowed. “You shouldn’t examine it too closely, my lord. There’s a simple explanation. You are accustomed to the finer things in life. As a shopkeeper, I am not. You are merely observant and notice my reactions.”

His eyes filled with amusement as he shook his head. “I believe there’s more to it than that.”

The door opened and the waiter brought the second course. The aroma of roast lamb made her mouth water. The waiter set a plate of lamb with cauliflower and asparagus before her.

Eliza dutifully picked up her fork and took a small bite. Everything was cooked perfectly and well-seasoned. Grayson never seemed to take his eyes from her as they dined.

She shifted in her seat. “Perhaps we should talk about the Pickens’ ball.”

“What’s there to discuss?”

“Now that we have both received invitations, what do you hope to accomplish?”

“I plan to find the stolen Rembrandt.” He spoke as if it was a simple task.

She blinked in surprise. Did he truly believe she’d be satisfied with such a vague answer? “Even if Pickens did purchase the painting, he wouldn’t be foolish enough to keep it in his home at the same time he’s hosting a ball. Only an idiot would openly display it on his ballroom wall.”

He grinned as he leaned back in his chair. “No, but a man of his arrogance would hang it in his private gallery.”

“You intend to just waltz inside his private gallery?”

He chuckled. “I doubt he’d invite me.”

A thought clicked in her mind. “You think he’ll escort me?”

His smile wavered, and his eyes narrowed a fraction. “I considered it, but I don’t want you alone and unprotected with the man.”

Not for the first time, his tone was possessive. She should take offense. Instead her pulse quickened.

“Then what are you planning?” she said.

“I’m going to conduct an illicit search while Pickens is occupied with his guests,” he said as if the answer was obvious.

“You can’t be serious! What if you’re caught?”

“I won’t be.”

She couldn’t help herself from laughing at his display of arrogance. “And to think when I met you I thought you were just another pompous aristocrat.”

A dark eyebrow shot upward. “Pompous?”

“And boring,” she added.

“Now I take offense to
that.
Haven’t you experienced excitement and adventure since we’ve been working together?”

She eyed him. “You know I loved attending the Royal Academy.”

The waiter delivered dessert—strawberries and Devonshire cream. Grayson ordered another bottle of wine. She watched as he topped off her glass.

She picked up a strawberry and bit into the ripe fruit. A sweet burst of flavor tickled her tongue. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten a strawberry. The fruit was a luxury they could never afford.

“You must eat it with the cream,” he said as he plucked a red berry out of her hand and dipped it into the thick cream. Leaning forward, he raised it to her lips. “Taste.”

Whether because of the wine, or the man, a thrill of excitement skittered down her spine. Looking into his eyes, she leaned close and parted her lips. He fed her and she bit the tip of the strawberry. The combination of the fruit and the rich cream was heavenly. She chewed slowly, aware of his eyes darkening as he watched her.

“You’re right. It’s delicious together,” she said.

“There’s a touch of cream on your lip.”

She reached for her napkin.

“No.” He rested his hand on her wrist. “Let me.”

Instead of raising his napkin, his gaze dropped to her lips and he leaned even closer until she could feel his breath on her cheek. She froze, her heart thundering in her chest, as his head lowered inch by inch. He didn’t restrain her in any way and she was free to sit back, to pull away.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His tongue idly licked a trace of cream from her lower lip. It felt like the lightest swirl of lush wetness. She sensed the tension and power coiled in his muscles. But there was nothing rough about his kiss as his mouth gently brushed hers once…twice…teasing her senses.

She sighed and parted her lips in anticipation of his deepening the kiss. Her heart leapt as his lips fully covered hers, and her mouth parted beneath the domination of his lips. When his tongue idly brushed against hers, an unbidden shiver of wanting coursed through her.

He kissed her slowly and thoroughly, skillfully unlocking her inhibitions and rousing her passion. The spicy scent of his shaving soap coiled about her as he sipped at her mouth like it was fine wine. Her excitement grew along with her desire. All her pent up emotions surged forth and swept away her misgivings. The differences between them melted away. She wanted this, craved the contact. The harsh uneven rhythm of her breathing echoed in her ears.

“Oh, Grayson,” she heard herself whisper.

Her fingers grazed his sleeves across the table until she clutched his muscular forearms. She wanted to touch his shoulders, run her fingers through his hair. His lips promised secret delights and tenderness that touched upon a loneliness she’d long denied. Feelings she’d buried in these years since her father had left them and survival had been an all-consuming concern suddenly erupted.

It wasn’t only emotional yearning she craved, but physical as well. Liquid heat gathered between her legs as they kissed. She was all too aware of the width of the table between them. She wanted to press herself against him. Feel the strength of his arms about her, his heat, the hardness of his body. Surely he could sense her need. He would know how to ease it. She moaned into the kiss, a demand and request at once.

He cupped her cheek and pulled back an inch. She made a mewling sound in frustration.

“Eliza,” he whispered against her lips.

“Hmmm.”

He withdrew a fraction more. She raised her eyelids in confusion and met his gaze. He’d been kissing her…why on earth did he stop?

His voice was a deep rasp. “There was never a Mr. Somerton, was there?”

Her mind fuddled. She was slow to come to her senses and clear her head of the haze of passion that threatened to consume her. His eyes were clear and she could only imagine how she appeared to him—green eyes glassy from too much wine and too much passion.

“Must you know everything?” she said, her voice shaky.

She should be frightened that he knew the truth. In the short time since she’d known him, he’d stripped her of all her secrets. From the beginning, he’d quickly discerned that she was Jonathan Miller’s daughter. He’d learned Amelia was the forger, not her. And now, he knew she’d concocted tales of a false husband.

She searched his face, but there was no trace of anger at her deception. Rather a strange curiosity and some other emotion flickered in the depths of his eyes. Fascination? Admiration?

“I want to know,” he insisted.

She shook her head slightly.

“Please. I
need
to know.”

She wasn’t expecting a plea, and the tone of his voice tugged at her heart. He wanted to know the truth, and not because he would use it against her. Deep down she knew he wouldn’t reveal her secret to ruin the business she’d worked tirelessly to build.

“It’s true. Mr. Somerton never existed,” she whispered.

“Why pretend all this time?”

She realized she still grasped his forearms. She tried to pull away, but he clutched her hands. More surprised than frightened, she looked up. She stared wordlessly across at him, her heart pounding.

“Why else? A widow is much more acceptable as the proprietor of a business than three young, unmarried ladies,” she said. “I could never have obtained a lease for the print shop without my alias. And even with my fictitious background, I was still at the mercy of unscrupulous merchants and customers. The warehouse owner Mr. Cain is merely one example.”

Grayson’s jaw tightened at the mention of Cain’s name. “You haven’t gone back to that blackguard, have you?”

“No. There hasn’t been a need.” Not since she had received Grayson’s list of suppliers who willingly did business with her.

“How long have you known about my past?” she asked.

“I’ve suspected for a while.”

“How?” If he knew perhaps others would as well.

“Your kisses.”

“My kisses?” What on earth did he mean? She thought he’d looked into her past, wandered into the nearest cemetery in search of a gravestone with the Somerton name, or even searched the records for a death certificate.

“Your kisses are passionate, but inexperienced,” he said simply.

Eliza bristled. Again she knew she should react with anger, but instead his explanation wounded her vanity. She pursed her lips, leaned on her elbow, and looked him in the eye. “Don’t you like kissing me?”

…

Grayson knew Eliza was emboldened by the wine. She also looked hurt. It was a ridiculous response on her part since he’d never been more aroused. It had taken all his self-control not to strip the table of the tablecloth, spread it before the fireplace, and ravage Eliza right then and there. He envisioned undressing her and taking the pot of cream and spooning it on her breasts, her soft thighs, her woman’s center and slowly and leisurely licking cream off every luscious part of her body.

He also knew there was only one way to ease her concerns.

He had to show her.

Desire made his voice hoarse. “We should leave.”

He stood and helped her to her feet. Thankfully, she didn’t argue. She swayed slightly as he led her from the inn and helped her into the carriage. She sat beside him.

Grayson banged on the roof, and the carriage lurched forward.

“You never answered my question,” she said.

“What question?”

“About kissing me. Don’t you like it?”

He was beginning to sweat. “I like it very much. I also think you drank too much wine.”

“I should be upset with you.”

“Why? Because I don’t like being lied to?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t do it
to
you, remember? The story started long, long ago.”

He’d suspected her secret for a while, but he hadn’t been sure. He needed to know the truth and now he had it. She had never been married, which meant there was a good likelihood she was untouched. And damn if that thought didn’t make his cock swell even harder.

What the hell was the matter with him? He had never bedded an innocent before. He avoided them like the plague. Virgins came with emotional complications. Why then did he want her more than ever?

She was a fighter, a survivor, and he respected her more than many men who were his peers. He also desired to possess her with a fierceness that was frightening.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were large green orbs in the carriage lamplight. “Now, back to kissing. What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “And I never said I don’t like kissing you.”

She cupped his cheek and scooted close. “Show me.”

He didn’t need further encouraging. He swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly this time. She clutched fistfuls of his jacket, then wound her hands around his neck. Her nails scratched his scalp, sending a jolt of raw lust through him. She would drive him mad, completely mad.

He pulled back an inch. “That’s why I needed to know the truth. Your first time should be in a bed,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She trembled. “You’ve never minded kissing me in your carriage before.”

“This is more than just kisses.”

“It is?”

The carriage came to a halt as they arrived at Bruton Street. Grayson jumped down to help her. “I’ll see you inside.”