Once Upon a Wallflower (10 page)

He smiled sadly. “So, you see, when she died, Olivia and I were not exactly engaged anymore. She had, however amicably, jilted me.”

“Oh.” Mira could think of nothing else to say.

“Now, enough of this maudlin reminiscing,” Nicholas said, a gruff catch in his voice. “I have a sketch to do. And you, Mira, must remain as still as a stone while I draw you, so I recommend that you lean back again. You may close your eyes if you wish, whatever makes you most comfortable.”

Mira did as instructed, sinking back against the pillows and savoring the way in which they yielded beneath her, their mass shifting to cradle her body.

She closed her eyes, thinking to add this new piece of the puzzle to the information she already possessed. But within moments, the hiss of another rainstorm and the sibilant scratching of Nicholas’s charcoal across the canvas had lulled her into a light doze.

“Mira?” His voice washed around her, a gentle wave of sound lapping at her skin.

“Hmmm?”

“Mira, are you awake?”

She opened one eye and gazed around herself in sleepy wonder, trying to assimilate the wild array of colors and patterns surrounding her. How odd. She could not remember ever dreaming such vivid colors before, or such distinct odors. It smelled green, like rain. Like rain and cloves.

“Mira-mine, are you awake?”

“Yes.”

Nicholas’s low laughter resonated through her bones, its deep register seeming to come from within her own body.

“Liar,” he said.

Slowly, still woozy from her nap, she sat up, planting her feet on the plush carpet with the deliberate care of a drunk. “Why would you ask a question if you already knew the answer?” she responded, her sleepy slur robbing the rejoinder of all its bite.

“Touché, my dear.”

Mira squinted in an effort to focus on Nicholas. He was standing by the easel, the charcoal still in his hand, his cheek and forehead smudged black with its dust. Belatedly, she remembered that she was supposed to remain still.

“May I move yet?” she asked, realizing that the question was moot.

“Mmmm. Yes, I am done with the sketch. And it is nearing time for you to go back to your room to change for dinner. We would not want anyone to come looking for you…they might actually find you. Here. With me. And that would not do at all.”

“You are done with the sketch? Would it… I mean, may I see?” She held her breath in anticipation of his answer. She did not even know what she hoped he would say.

Nicholas frowned and looked at his easel. “I suppose,” he murmured. “Usually Pawly is the only one to see my work before it is finished, and Pawly rarely bothers to look. But, under the circumstances, I do not see why you shouldn’t see the work in progress.”

When she began to stand, he held up a hand to stop her. “But you must keep in mind, Mira, that it is only a sketch.”

“Of course,” she said with a weak smile. He was so defensive, so cautious, she could not help but dread what she would see.

She moved to the easel, her eyes downcast, watching the toes of her boots alternately peeking from beneath her skirts and disappearing. She did not look up until she was standing squarely in front of the easel. Taking a steadying breath, she raised her head…

And gasped.

The image before her was not at all what she expected. A woman stared out at her from the canvas, her wide eyes meeting Mira’s with an honest gaze. The woman on the canvas was neither plump, nor pale, nor graceless. Indeed, the woman on the canvas was defined by the most graceful arcs of charcoal, sensuous in their gentle curves. The woman on the canvas reclined lightly against an indistinct background, her head thrown up and back in a look of amused challenge. The woman on the canvas was beautiful.

“Oh, my lord,” Mira began. “Nicholas…” She could find no other words.

Her attention was so fixed upon the canvas, that she did not notice Nicholas’s heat, just behind her, until he rested one hand lightly on her shoulder.

“It is only a sketch,” he whispered, the words little more than a breath which stirred the curls against her cheek and sent a shiver throughout her body. “It does not do you justice.”

“It is…lovely,” she finally managed, her voice tight with an ill-defined emotion. “Is this how you see me?” she asked.

“This is how you are, Mira-mine.”

“Oh.”

Of its own accord, her body sought the heat of his, leaning into the shelter of his form. Slowly, cautiously, his arms surrounded her, pulling her back to mold her softness to his hardness.

With one hand he tucked her wayward curls behind her ear, his lips finding the tender skin he had exposed. His mouth against her throat, just beneath her ear, was so soft, so warm, the tiniest flutter of movement. Yet her skin was so sensitized that her every nerve tingled at the touch.

Nicholas’s hand, braced against her chest and holding her to him, moved, and Mira felt her tucker sliding free of the edges of her gown. She did not protest as he plucked the wisp of muslin away, and his hand returned to rest against the naked swell of her breast.

His fingers brushed across the chain on which the jonquil pendant hung, and he traced the line of the delicate links down to where they disappeared into the neck of her gown. His touch slid downward, pressing through the soft muslin of her dress to follow the path of the chain, until his hand came to rest over the pendant itself. He paused for just a moment, his palm flat against her chest. The heat of his hand seeped into her skin, radiating around the cooler smoothness of his gift to her.

And then he bit her, gently grazing her skin beneath her ear with the minute ridges that scored the edges of his teeth, marking her as his even as he insinuated the tips of his fingers into the neckline of her dress. She gasped again, in delicious wonder.

Nicholas retraced the path of his tender bite with his tongue, laving the mild abrasion with liquid warmth. In the wake of his sinful ministrations, the rain-soaked air chilled her skin, and she was acutely aware of the contrast between his heat and the cold breath of the breeze on the dampness of her skin. The sensation sent a wild shiver through Mira’s body. From head to toe she vibrated.

Her mind was awhirl with awareness and yearning, a yearning so powerful yet so elusive she could not make out exactly what it was she wanted. But she knew she wanted his hands on her, wanted his mouth on her, wanted…him.

Her limbs were heavy, molten, and she was opening, unfurling beneath his touch, expanding from the inside out to embrace this new world of physical sensation.

Nicholas continued to hold her steady against him, continued to kiss and lick and nip at her neck and ear, continued to stroke the soft white arc of her breast. And all the while she held the gaze of the woman on the canvas…herself, Mira Fitzhenry, reflected through the eyes of this strange and wonderful man.

When he ran the tip of his tongue lightly along the curve of her ear, she nearly collapsed. She let out a soft, quavering moan, and her hands came up, seeking and grasping for something to hold, some way to respond.

He turned her then, pulled her around in his arms until she faced him, yet he never let her lose contact with the hard length of him.

Her head dropped back, in an attitude of abandon, supplication, surrender.

She waited for Nicholas to continue kissing her, but he did not. Bereft and confused, she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, the ferocity of his gaze unnerving. His skin was flushed and his breathing hard, and his body seemed to thrum with some barely contained energy.

Suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut and drew her up, held her tighter still against his warmth, and dropped his head to rest his brow against hers. He held her like that for a moment, then brushed the lightest, most chaste kiss across her lips, and set her away from him.

Mira stood trembling and alone, unsure what to do next. She was suddenly acutely aware of her state of undress, one sleeve of her gown sliding off her shoulder, exposing the linen shift beneath, and her missing tucker.

She could not meet his eyes. Why had he stopped? Had she done something wrong?

“Mira,” he said, his voice a gruff whisper, “I…I am sorry for that.” He looked as though he wanted to say more, but then he shook his head. “You must go get ready for dinner.” The corners of his mouth drifted up in an absent smile as he reached out to tweak Mira’s hair out from behind her ear, to tug the shoulder of her gown back into place. “I am afraid you are a mess.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, her voice small. She was being dismissed.

But then he bent down and retrieved her tucker from the carpet at their feet. As he handed it to her, his hand lingered longer than it needed to, his fingers caressing hers through the gauzy fabric. She looked into his eyes then and saw the heat still burning there, the reluctance to let her go.

When she had righted her appearance enough to get through the hallways and back to her bedchamber, Nicholas walked her the few steps to the door. Before she disappeared into the tower vestibule, though, he laid a restraining hand on her arm.

She looked up questioningly, and saw that he was staring at her forehead with a bemused smile.

“I appear to have marked you, Mira-mine,” he said softly, his free hand drifting up to indicate a smudge of charcoal on his own face.

Mira watched in fascination as Nicholas licked the edge of his thumb, the sensual gesture triggering a wave of heat washing through her.

He reached out, then, and brushed his moist thumb across her forehead, his touch a benediction.

Without thinking, she grasped his hand before he could pull away, raised it to her lips and lightly kissed his palm. Before he could respond, she turned and dashed out the door and down the stairs to the passageway, burning from head to toe at her own boldness.

Chapter Nine

Mira came awake with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. The thought was there, clear as daylight in her mind and, even addled with sleep, she knew it was important. In the moment it took for her eyes to adjust to the stygian darkness and for her senses to take in the unfamiliar bedroom, to remember where she was, a voice in her head repeated one phrase over and over: darting, darting, darting.

Gingerly climbing out of bed, she made her way by feel—each foot sliding out a tiny way, toes timidly skimming the carpet in search of obstacles—to the large windows overlooking the courtyard garden. She pulled the drapes to let in what little moonlight there was, and, by that faint glow, made her way to the door that connected her bedchamber to the small room where Nan slept. After cracking the door and peeking in, she crept to Nan’s bedside.

“Nan!” she whispered. “Nan, wake up.” When words alone failed to rouse her friend, Mira reached out a hand to gently shake Nan’s shoulder. “Nan, wake up. It’s me, Mira.”

“Miss Mira?” Nan’s voice was fuzzy with sleep. “Miss Mira, is something the matter?”

“No, Nan. I’m sorry to wake you, but I have had the most astounding revelation.” After pausing a moment for dramatic effect, she announced, “Nicholas did not do it!”

“What?” Nan became more alert, her voice growing stronger, and she sat up in bed. “What do you mean?”

Mira ran a hand over a spot on Nan’s bed, to be sure there was no Nan there, and sat herself down to explain. “The proof has been right in front of my eyes all along. Darting.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Mira. What on earth are you talking about?”

“Sarah Linworth told me that, just before Olivia died, she complained of hearing footsteps following her along the corridors. And she saw a figure darting through the shrubberies outside her chamber window.” Mira stopped, a smug smile spreading across her face.

Nan obviously failed to grasp the importance of Mira’s revelation. “Yes?”

“Don’t you see? Olivia told Sarah that someone was following her down the hallway, that she heard the footsteps. But she did not mention that the person following her had a limp, that she heard a foot being dragged along or that the steps were in any way uneven. If she had mentioned such a distinctive quality to the steps, Sarah would surely have told me, as that description would have clearly marked Olivia’s pursuer as Nicholas. What’s more, Olivia saw someone darting through the shrubberies. Those were Sarah’s exact words: ‘darting through the shrubberies.’ Nicholas cannot dart, any more than he can fly. The man’s limp is quite pronounced. Whoever was haunting poor Olivia Linworth in the days before her death was not Nicholas. He is not the murderer. Logically, he simply cannot be!” she concluded, her voice ringing with triumph.

Nan was silent a moment.

“Miss Mira?” she questioned softly. “I do not mean to be presumptuous, but it seems that you might be leaping to conclusions.”

Taken aback, Mira asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, it is only that your evidence seems a bit thin,” Nan said gently. “
Miss Sarah Linworth
did not mention that
Miss Olivia Linworth
did not mention an uneven gait. But that does not mean that the person following Miss Olivia Linworth did not have a limp. It only means that either Miss Olivia Linworth did not think to mention that fact to Miss Sarah Linworth or that Miss Sarah Linworth did not think to mention it to you. And Miss Sarah Linworth may have said, specifically, that Miss Olivia Linworth saw someone—what was it?—‘darting through the shrubberies’? But that does not mean that Miss Olivia Linworth described the incident that way. She might have said ‘moving through the shrubberies’ or ‘hurrying through the shrubberies’…either of which might describe the activity of someone with a limp.”

Mira paused, considering Nan’s reasoning. “Nonsense,” she concluded. “You may have a point with the shrubbery darting, but I simply cannot believe that Olivia would hear distinctive dragging footsteps behind her, yet not mention it to her sister. Or that Sarah would fail to mention such an important fact to me on the two—two!—occasions she described Olivia’s fears. Especially when she was clearly trying to convince me of Nicholas’s guilt. No, Nan, logic leads to only one conclusion: Nicholas is not the guilty party.”