An Artful Seduction (8 page)

Chapter Ten

Grayson’s arms tightened around Eliza.
Of all the bloody things to say.
“You admit it then?” he said tersely.

“Admit what? You know Miller is my father,” Eliza said.

His pulse thrummed. His groin throbbed. The feel of her pressed tightly against him was intoxicating. “Not that, damn it. You admit to using Amelia’s talents to forge paintings?”

“There was only one and we were desperate. It was soon after father left. We had no choice,” she said.

“How desperate were you?” he demanded.

“Our circumstances were dire. Chloe was ill again. We needed food, shelter, and medicine.”

His brow furrowed. He didn’t like the image of Eliza and her sisters struggling to survive. “And what of your husband?”

Her green eyes widened. “I didn’t marry until afterwards.”

“Did he ever learn of your crime?”

“No. I never told him.”

“You’re willing to go to prison for Amelia’s mistakes?” he said.

“I would,” she said with conviction. “Amelia was never to blame. I was the mastermind. I arranged for the painting to be sold to Viscount Tutton. I never considered his estate would hold an auction after his death.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “Yes, I would!”

Her breasts heaved in the bodice of her worn gown and it took every ounce of his willpower not to lower his gaze, not to reach out and caress her flesh.

He’d forget his anger, lose his advantage.

He dropped his arms from around her. “I won’t let you. Innocent people could be hurt.”

She quickly stepped aside and met his hard gaze. “Only the rich, my lord. Father often said the wealthy can afford it. Forgery is a victimless crime.”

Grayson recalled the humiliation he’d felt when it became known he’d raved about a forged painting. The newspapers had been quick to print his mistake. He hadn’t shown his face at the Royal Academy for close to a year afterwards.

His thoughts turned bitter.
I was a laughingstock.

Grayson hadn’t been alone. Jonathan Miller had other victims as well, dozens who’d fallen for his scams. They weren’t all wealthy and had taken considerable blows to their finances after learning that they had purchased worthless paintings and not valuable pieces of art from one of the masters.

In short, people
had
been hurt.

Anger and lust simmered in Grayson’s veins, a volatile mix. “You and Amelia are fortunate. Viscount Tutton never learned the truth behind the Wildens forgery before he died. I have the painting now, and I won’t allow you to do it again. I’m going to watch you, Eliza. Closely. Carefully.”

Every curve of her body spoke defiance. “You do not
own
me, my lord. That was never part of our arrangement.”

His eyes raked boldly over her. “It is now.”

…

She had been foolish to incite him.

Eliza sat back in the earl’s coach as it drove away from the mansion. She would have hailed a hackney if Grayson hadn’t insisted his driver return her to her home.

She shifted restlessly against the luxurious squabs and pulled the sable cloak more tightly around her. She’d come with every intention of returning the cloak, but as she’d stood in the vestibule after their heated argument, preparing to leave, he’d wrapped it around her and she’d been afraid to protest.

She’d always believed Grayson was dangerous, but now that he knew the entire truth—that Amelia was the forger—she was even more convinced he could destroy them.

But so far he hadn’t acted on the knowledge. Instead, he’d kissed her.

Bone-melting kisses in the seclusion of his stunning gallery. She’d been easily seduced. He was unlike any other man she knew. So different from the wealthy merchants who frequented her shop and made their illicit interest in her known. As a widow and shopkeeper without the protection of any male relations, she’d had her fair share of men who’d thought she should be freely available. She’d never been the slightest bit interested in any of them.

Until Grayson.

Each time they were alone, she found it difficult to recall he was her adversary. And when he swept her into his arms and kissed her…

Her stomach fluttered wildly. The touch of his lips was sensual and seductive, making her knees weaken. But more alarming than her physical response, his kiss revealed a hidden yearning buried deep within her.

Huntingdon was a complex man—kind one moment and cold the next. He’d sent coal, shawls, and cloaks. He’d paid for a doctor to treat Chloe. He’d asked for her opinion on which of his valuable works he should loan to a museum. But just as quickly he’d revealed his knowledge of her family secret and warned that he’d watch her closely to ensure she’d not commit another crime.

It was all so confusing. There was only one thing she knew to be true. He was a powerful, dominant male who was used to getting what he desired, and she shouldn’t—
couldn’t
—allow further intimacy.

The risks were perilous.

What if he thought he could kiss her any time he wanted in exchange for keeping Amelia’s secret? Or, heaven forbid, required more than that? A shiver of fear ran down her spine. If she were truthful to herself, she didn’t fear Grayson, but the effect he had on her senses. Would she be able to resist him if he kissed her elsewhere…touched her elsewhere? Her pulse quickened at the thought.

Good God. What was she thinking?

He was an earl, and she was a shopkeeper and a criminal’s daughter. They were as different as a colorful oil painting compared to a simple charcoal sketch. There could never be a future between them.

Her only thoughts should be of her sisters and how she could keep Amelia out of trouble. She needed to focus on what was most important and not allow Grayson to distract her. He could watch her as closely as he wished; she had no intention of selling another of Amelia’s forgeries.

Once the stolen Rembrandt was found, Grayson would return to his prior existence—his realm of wealth and privilege—and she, without further worry of scandal, would return to her old life and the print shop.

Just as it should be.

…

As an earl and an important art critic, Grayson had certain obligations among polite society. Attending the annual ball hosted by Lord and Lady Ruskin—both generous patrons of the Royal Academy—was one of them.

Grayson stepped into the crowded Mayfair ballroom. Dozens of chandeliers holding hundreds of candles illuminated the room. He reached for a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray and surveyed the guests.

The ballgowns were a rainbow-like display rivaling an artist’s palette, from vibrant tones to pastels to the occasional white. The women’s hairstyles were just as varied—dyed ostrich plumes swayed from towering turbans beside braided coronets and Roman style ringlets with hair bandeaux.

The men were not to be outdone. The dandies of the
ton
strutted about with brightly colored coats, striped and checked waistcoats, high, pointed shirtpoints, and intricately tied cravats. But the expensive silks and satins could not compare to the sparkle of diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds—the dazzling abundance of precious stones and gold.

He’d never given the opulence and wealth of the
beau monde
a second thought. He’d been raised as the heir to an earldom. But tonight, for the first time, he was seeing it through different eyes.

“You’re looking particularly glum tonight,” Brandon said.

Grayson sipped his champagne. “I didn’t want to attend, but the host, Lord Ruskin, is a friend.”

Glasses clinked and laughter floated. The elegant ballroom offered warmth, expensive champagne, and fine food. But his thoughts were of a small shop with novice artwork and colorful décor.

Brandon raised his glass of claret. “Why not? The mamas of the
ton
are nearly throwing their daughters at your feet. Soon you’ll have to choose one.”

Grayson didn’t care about the eligible debutantes and their eager mothers who reminded him of vultures circling their prey.

The orchestra began a lively country reel and dancers swirled on the parquet dance floor.

His mind kept turning to yesterday’s confrontation with Eliza.

She’d intended to leave his home during a snowstorm wearing only her gown and wet shoes. Her wellbeing shouldn’t matter to him, but it did. He didn’t want her suffering frostbite or coming down with pneumonia, and his reasoning had nothing to do with their upcoming visit to Dorian Reed.

The mystery that was Eliza Somerton was slowly unraveling. She wasn’t the calculating charlatan that she wanted him to believe. Her eyes had flashed emerald fire when she’d insisted that she would sell another of Amelia’s forgeries. His temper had risen, but afterwards he’d had time to calm and think.

He didn’t believe her.

She’d been desperate to reclaim the forged Wildens painting. If she intended to sell another of Amelia’s forgeries, then why bother with the Wildens painting? Why not let it sell at auction? Chances were no one would suspect it was a forgery. Amelia’s work was meticulous. He’d discovered it only because of Eliza’s avid interest in the painting at the Tutton auction. Otherwise, he’d never have given it a second glance.

No, Eliza’s bold retort had been an attempt to anger him. She’d only been half successful. He had been angry, but he’d been even more aroused. He’d swept her into his arms then pinned her against his gallery wall and claimed her lips. He had not imagined the fervor of their first kiss. It didn’t matter that it had been swift; the undeniable magnetism was present. She’d tried to resist, but her passionate nature had quickly taken over.

He relived the feeling of her hands slipping up his arms to caress the strong tendons in the back of his neck then tangle in his hair. Her body had arched toward his, and her moans had been a heady invitation. Her nipples had been taut beneath the thin fabric of her dowdy gown. In his hunger and desire, he’d wanted to peel off her clothing, and crush her breasts to his broad chest. He’d rouse her to the peak of excitement, then lay her down on the settee in his gallery and plunge inside her hot, welcoming body.

“I’ve been thinking about Miss Amelia,” Brandon said.

“What?”

“Amelia. I’ve been thinking of her.”

Grayson’s brows drew downward. “I’m not surprised.”

“I plan to visit the Peacock Print Shop. I want to offer her a commission to paint my portrait,” Brandon said.

“Have you lost your wits?”

Brandon shrugged matter-of-factly. “You told Eliza that you know Amelia is the painter, correct?” Brandon didn’t wait for Grayson’s response. “Since it’s no longer a secret, I’ve decided to seize the opportunity. My grandmother has been pestering me to have my portrait painted.”

“So? Go to the Academy. There are dozens of qualified portrait painters.”

Brandon shook his head. “There’s something special about Miss Amelia. I can’t stop thinking of her. It’s a perfect solution. I need a portrait; she needs the money.”

“Don’t fake generosity on my behalf. You’re like a randy schoolboy. You told me to find a mistress; maybe you should take your own advice.”

“It’s more than that,” Brandon snapped. “She’s different.”

“What about the Duke of Townsend’s daughter?”

“Don’t even mention it. The duke and his family are present tonight.”

Grayson followed Brandon’s gaze across the ballroom where Townsend and his family gathered. Brandon’s grandmother had been pressing for a match with Townsend’s daughter, Minerva.

A pale blond with an ample bosom, Minerva had an annoying tendency to speak incessantly. She was the type of woman Grayson couldn’t tolerate—too much chatter, too little intellect. But Brandon didn’t have a choice. He’d inherited his father’s title along with his massive debt.

They were similar in that regard; but where Grayson had managed to pay off his debt and earn money in the Stock Exchange, Brandon was not as successful. He desperately needed Minerva’s large dowry.

“What about you? You must marry soon. Sara’s coming out will be here before you know it.”

“I know it,” Grayson said tersely. He needed to find a suitable wife, a titled heiress would be best. But he would have to be forced to the altar before he’d willingly bind himself to someone like Lady Minerva.

“The duchess and Lady Minerva have spotted me and are coming this way.” Brandon swallowed. “I feel as if my cravat is cutting off my air supply. You’d best escape while you can, Grayson.”

“I’ll be on the terrace if you can extricate yourself,” Grayson said.

He wove through the crowd, intending to exit through the French doors. The smell of hot candle wax and perspiring bodies was overwhelming.

“Grayson.” A brisé fan tapped softly against his wrist. “I’ve been waiting to catch you alone.”

“Leticia,” he said, looking down at a blond woman.

“I didn’t know you’d be in attendance tonight.”

“I do get out and about.”

She arched a well-plucked brow. “Other than gallery visits, you used to visit
me.”

They’d had an affair months ago. Leticia, otherwise known as Lady Kinsdale, was a wealthy widow of a marquess. She was also a beautiful woman with sleek blond hair, blue eyes, and a willowy figure. She had been a good choice as a lover at the time, adventurous in bed, but had grown far too possessive. She made it known she’d wanted more than a pleasurable bed partner and sought to remarry.

Marrying Lady Kinsdale would be perfectly acceptable in the eyes of polite society. She was rich, titled, and an admired hostess. The perfect choice to help launch Sara into society.

But Grayson had stopped calling.

Leticia took a deep breath and his eyes were drawn to the large ruby resting in her cleavage. She licked her painted lips. “I’ve missed you Grayson.”

“It’s good to see you well, Leticia.”

She ran her fan down his arm. “Do you not miss me?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You were never too busy for me in the past.” She leaned close and grazed the buttons on his jacket with a gloved finger. “Come to my home tonight,” she breathed.