Rhonda Woodward (10 page)

Standing next to him in front of the large painting, Mariah felt intensely aware of his tall body very close to hers. With the memory of his earlier words still stinging, she refused to look at him.

After a moment, the earl turned to her and said in a low voice, “It would seem that I am the one to have inadvertently stepped on your toes before Elbridge even had the chance. I would like you to know I meant my comment only as a friendly warning. Everyone knows Elbridge is on the hunt for a plump dowry and can’t dance to save his life.”

Mariah felt her cheeks grow hot. After the torturous waltz, she could not disagree with him, and could— almost—see the humor in the situation. Torn between laughter and embarrassment, she said nothing for a moment. However, something about his original remark still vexed her.

“I realize it is known that I have a large enough portion, but why would you think my virtue is so safe?”

Even though she knew her question to be shockingly unladylike, she could not help asking him. Inwardly, she cringed as she waited for his answer.

Dawning understanding cleared the frown from his brow.

“Now I see.” His deep laugh rumbled through her body. “You must be aware that you are dashed fetching, so don’t be a goose. Everyone knows that El-bridge only cares for gambling and his hounds—that is why your virtue is safe with him. It is an old joke among his friends. Nevertheless, I am deeply sorry that you were insulted by my maladroit attempt to tease.”

His apology was so simply sincere and unexpected that she could say nothing for a moment. What a fascinating man. One moment his supreme arrogance shocked her, and the next, his gentleness disarmed her resistance.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her defenses completely collapsed. “I know I should not be so sensitive, but I have sometimes encountered gentlemen who have found my dowry more attractive than they have found me.”

“Then they are complete sapskulls and beneath your notice. However, I can empathize with you. My title is often the attraction, instead of my sterling character.” His tone was light and full of amused self-deprecation.

A little laugh escaped Mariah’s lips. “You have given me a new way to view your situation, my lord. You have the luxury of being just as horrid as you wish, and unmarried misses will still flock to your side.”

A smile came to his lips. “Including you?”

“Me?” Mariah flipped open her fan, sending him a startled glance. “Never. I am learning too much from you to want to ruin our friendship by fawning over you.”

“Then learn something else from me—learn to be horrid as well.”

Mariah’s eyes widened at his words. Beneath his light tone, she could discern that he was serious. “Whatever for?”

“If men are going to flock to your dowry, as women flock to my title, then make them work for it.”

Looking up into those disturbing blue eyes, Mariah contemplated his words for a moment. “Even though I have no interest in Mr. Elbridge, I would not wish to be horrid to him.”

She watched one beautifully arched brow rise. “Why not? He is only interested in your dowry.”

“True,” Mariah agreed slowly. “But that is what Society expects of him. It is almost his duty to marry a fortune.”

“You are very generous in your attitude. But what of your sensitivity to being wanted only for your dowry?”

Struggling for the right words, she took her time before answering. “I
am
very sensitive about it, but that does not mean I don’t understand why it happens.

Besides, even though Mr. Elbridge may be a fortune hunter, his innate good manners would make marriage bearable if I were inclined to settle.”

The earl sent her a sharp look of amusement mixed with scorn. “I agree—good manners are preferable to passion.”

Mariah, sensing he was trying to shock her, refused to look away.

“Is there a reason I cannot have both?”

The change that came over his features at her words caused her heart to skip. She supposed that her question could be taken as provocative or flirtatious, but she meant it seriously.

Somehow, they had established that they could speak frankly to each other. He was so sophisticated and experienced; she wanted him to answer her question honestly.

He said nothing and only gazed down at her with an odd expression.

A long moment passed. Mariah felt a strange, swirling tension building within her as his searing blue gaze held hers. Holding her breath, she waited for his response. Somehow, the answer felt vitally important to her.

“Miss Thorncroft, I believe—”

“Stone.” Lady Walgrave’s carrying tones cut through the earl’s words. “Come dance with us. They are going to play a reel and you promised to be my partner.”

Chapter Nine

The next afternoon, Mariah wandered through the halls feeling restless and confused. She did not encounter any of the other guests, thankfully, before finally discovering the library.

At the sight of the two-story bookshelves lining the walls, she sighed with deep satisfaction. Loving books so much, she felt she had found a treasure trove.

In the middle of the room stood a beautifully carved, ancient oak table, obviously placed there so that the heavy tomes could rest on its polished surface and be perused at leisure. Walking around the table, she let her hand trail along its curved edge. Under the table, numerous portfolios nestled in rows of racks.

At the opposite end of the room, situated in the alcove of a large bow window, were two low, deep leather chairs. A small table stood between them. Next to the window, resting on an elaborate brass stand, was the largest globe she had ever seen.

How utterly perfect,
she thought. Moving to the window, she set her leather case upon the small table, then moved to look at the bookshelves.

The earl’s library was one of the most impressive features of an extremely impressive house. Her fingers skipped across history books and others on art, philosophy, and architecture. There were tomes in Greek, Latin, Italian, and French. The room held enough books to last an entire lifetime of constant reading. She sighed again, imagining herself sitting in one of those impossibly comfortable-looking leather chairs with a cup of tea and her pick from the shelves.

Even if she did not have a cup of tea, she could at least enjoy one of those impossibly comfortable-looking chairs.

Sinking into the buttery soft leather, she paused to pull her case onto her lap, thinking that she might draw a little to distract herself from her muddled thoughts. Gazing out the window, she tried to concentrate on the beautiful prospect of the lawn sloping down to the ornamental lake and the wooded area beyond.

It was a clear, cold day with a band of clouds edging the horizon. Dead leaves skidded across the lawn, and a breeze swayed the barren branches of a few chestnut trees in the distance.

At that moment, her heart leapt as she saw the earl and the rest of the male guests, including George, strolling toward the house across the damp, dead grass. Servants hurried ahead, carrying guns and baskets full of what looked to be dead grouse. Her little brother walked next to the earl, skipping to keep up with their host’s long strides.

The earl, wearing a bark brown Carrick coat with several shoulder capes, smiled down at George. The earl was close enough for her to see, beneath the deep collar of the coat, his simple, loosely tied stock. He was hatless, his almost black hair swept back in the wind. His hunting clothes made him seem less formal, revealing a raw masculinity that caused a melting warmth to settle in the pit of her stomach.

She thought he looked even more striking than he had in his evening clothes last night.

Last night.

Dash it! What had he been about to say?
she wondered for the thousandth time that day. She recalled the expression on his face the instant before Lady Walgrave had approached. Why did that dreadful woman have to interrupt them at that moment?

She caught hold of her tumbling thoughts and tried to think in a more logical manner. Why did it matter so much what the earl had been about to say? Although refusing to examine why, she could not deny that it did matter. Very much. Putting her fingers to her hot cheeks for a moment, she felt bemused and completely unlike herself.

It was too bad that he was so dashed handsome and charming. No, she swiftly amended; it was too bad he was such an unrepentant rakehell. She closed her eyes, frustration mixing with her confusion.
Saint or sinner, what does it matter?
her heart whispered, betraying her best intentions to protect herself. He would never look at her the way he looked at Lady Walgrave. Why, she asked herself, did he have the ability to disturb her so easily?

Looking out the window again, she saw that the group had moved closer to the house now. George picked up a stick and waved it around in a parody of swordplay.

With the ends of his coat flapping in the wind, the earl looked down at George’s antics with amusement. Gripping the sill, she leaned closer to the windowpane, looking intently at the earl. Tingling warmth constricted her heart as her gaze stayed riveted on the pair.

The earl stopped and held his hand out to George. The other men continued until they were almost beneath the window and out of her field of vision.

George handed over the stick, smiling up at the earl.

Lifting the stick, the earl made a slicing flourish in the air before assuming the stance of a fencer. An instant later, George imitated the earl—legs spread, left arm arcing behind.

Nodding approval, the earl handed the stick back to George and then picked up another thin branch from the windswept lawn.

For the next half hour, Mariah’s gaze remained fixed on the earl and her brother, enchanted, as the earl gave the boy a very thorough lesson in the art of fencing.

George appeared to be getting the hang of it, and by the end of the lesson they engaged in a little swordplay.

George “pinked” his tutor, causing Mariah to smile at the earl’s generosity. Then the earl patted George on the back, and they resumed their walk to the house, the impromptu lesson over.

Mariah turned away from the window, staring blankly at the bookshelf on the other side of the room, and considered what she had just witnessed. Had there ever been a more contradictory personality than the earl’s?

This man, so patient and fun-loving with a little boy, bore little resemblance to the selfish libertine she knew him to be.

Moreover, she did not think that she had ever felt so torn in her opinion of anyone.

Hearing a noise, Mariah dragged her thoughts from the enigmatic earl and looked up to see one of the housemaids approaching.

After curtsying, she said, “Beggin’ your pardon, miss. May I bring you a spot of tea? Or is there anything else you might like?”

Smiling at the pleasant-looking young woman, Mariah said, “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, miss. Would you like me to stoke up the fire? ’Tis a bit chilly.”

“No need. I am quite comfortable. The tea will be warming me soon.”

“Very good, miss. I will bring it straightaway.” With another quick curtsy, the maid left the room.

Mariah watched her go, marveling at how happy and attentive all the earl’s servants seemed to be. Alone again, she turned her attention to the leather case on her lap. She scolded herself for spending so much time thinking about the earl. Her contemplation of him was ridiculous as well as pointless, and she was much too intelligent to waste any more time on him.
There! That should take care of that,
she told herself sternly.

After untying the straps that held the case secure, she opened it and pulled out a few clean pieces of paper and a pencil. She closed the case, turned it over, and placed the paper on its smooth back.

Looking out the window, she studied the beautiful landscape before making her first line. As she had since childhood, Mariah soon lost herself in the intense feelings of creativity that always gripped her when she drew. She had done several sketches when she heard the maid approaching again.

Her smile froze when she saw that it was not the maid standing before her.

“I had no idea that you are an artist, Miss Thorn-croft,” the earl said, his brow arched in curiosity.

Except for the Carrick coat, he was dressed as she had seen him a little while ago—bottle green coat, tan waistcoat, buff leather breeches, and Hessian boots.

Gasping with surprise at his unexpected appearance, Mariah tried to gather up her sketches and rise at the same time.

“I am not! An artist, that is—”

He stepped forward quickly. “Please do not get up. I should apologize for interrupting your solitude. But, I confess, when I walked by the open doorway and saw you in such deep concentration, my curiosity forced me to barge in.”

Flustered by his unexpected—and overwhelmingly masculine—appearance, Mariah did not know where to look. “It is nothing, really. Just something to pass the time.”

Without asking her leave, the earl moved to sit in the chair next to hers.

“Art is never just something to pass the time. It is a higher form of thought and self-expression and worthy of the utmost respect.”

Shoving the sheets back into the case, Mariah glanced at the earl in surprise. “I have never thought of it in that light before.” She relaxed back into the chair, the desire to flee having vanished.

“Although I am being eaten alive with my desire to see what you have drawn, I have surmised that you have no intention of showing me. Perhaps you feel as if you would be casting your pearls before swine?”

“Oh no, my lord!” she gasped, horrified that he would think such a thing. Then she caught the teasing gleam in his piercing eyes.

“I take great pleasure in drawing and painting as well,” he continued. “Perhaps if I show you some of my work, you might in turn take pity on my curiosity and show me what you have been drawing.”

Tilting her head to the side, Mariah considered his offer. “Maybe,” she said in a noncommittal tone. “But I would truly like to see what you have created.”

Smiling at her cautious reply, the earl rose and went to the oak table in the middle of the room. Squatting before it, he rolled out one of the racks and pulled a portfolio from it.

He returned to his chair and said, “Here is a watercolor I did while touring Italy some years ago.” Sorting through the sheaf, he handed over a large, thick sheet of paper.

Accepting it with surprise, Mariah thought that she would never have guessed the earl had an interest in art. She had assumed that he cared for nothing but gambling and philandering. Yet she felt strangely honored that he would share something so personal as his artwork with her. Without saying a word, she careful examined the watercolor.

Her gaze traveled over the paper, taking in a blazing sunset over an Italian villa nestled on a hillside. The colors conveyed the vibrancy of a summer day. An amateur could not have created the play of shadow and light on the rooftop and hillside. She could almost feel the movement of the sun sparkling on the sapphire ocean in the background. A tabby cat lounging on the steps of the villa raised a smile to her lips.

She examined the watercolor for several minutes, feeling as though she held a beautiful work of art in her hands—one created by someone who obviously cared deeply for the subject matter.

Finally, she looked up at him, her hazel eyes glowing, and softly said, “You are an amazing artist, my lord! You have taken me from the cold English countryside to the radiant Mediterranean. If you were not a lord, you could make your living with such a gift. I am now even less inclined to show someone of your prodigious talent my paltry efforts.”

Her last comment was not exactly true. She had never met a real artist before and already had a dozen questions for him on the tip of her tongue. Nevertheless, the thought of him being condescendingly kind about her meager scribblings still made her hesitate.

As if sensing her vacillation, the earl did not press her.

“Thank you. I hope my ability has improved through practice and study. But the greatest challenge I face when painting is to effectively convey the mood of the subject I am attempting to capture.”

Eyes alight with pleasure at his insight, Mariah said, “I very much agree with you, my lord. I am always disappointed that I am unable to convey the
feeling
of the scene I draw.”

Their eyes held in a moment of understanding before the earl continued. “Perhaps all artists struggle with this problem. My father was also something of an artist. That is one of his paintings.” He gestured toward the far wall. “A small portrait he did of my mother shortly after their marriage.”

Mariah gazed across the room to the simple yet obviously loving portrayal of a young, pretty woman.

“It’s beautiful. Is it very like your mother?”

“Yes, even though it was done more than five and twenty years ago. I feel my father captured something elusive in my mother’s expression, especially around the eyes, that reveals much about the humor in her personality. You will be able to judge for yourself next week when my mother and some of her friends arrive.”

“I look forward to it. Did your father do many more paintings?”

“A few. There is one in my mother’s drawing room of me when I was a boy. I recall being prodigiously bored sitting for him. My father died when I was seventeen, so I treasure his paintings and sketchbooks.”

Mariah looked back at him, her eyes clouded with sympathy. “So young? How tragic to lose your father in his prime. I am sorry, my lord.”

He sent her a slight smile, his left brow quirked into an arch. “Father was past seventy and broke his neck riding while foxed.”

“Oh!” Mariah struggled to suppress a shocked laugh at this revelation. Raising her hand to her mouth, she covered the laugh with a cough.
It really is not funny,
she chided herself.

“Do not be embarrassed. I was extremely sad to lose him, but I, too, shake my head and smile at the thought of that old man getting on a horse, drunk. My mother has never completely recovered from his death. Despite the vast difference in their ages, they had an extremely successful marriage.”

“That is a blessing indeed.”

“Yes. And I will always be grateful that he instilled in me his love of art.”

A comfortable silence held them for a moment as Mariah continued to gaze at the portrait of the earl’s mother.

Coming to a decision, Mariah opened her leather case and pulled out the sheets she had stuffed into it only moments ago. Giving herself no time to reconsider, she laid the stack on the table between them and pointed to the sheet on top, saying, “I tried for a little more detail with this one. I am not happy with the proportions of the trees and lake in comparison to the lawn and sky.”

His features were expressionless as he picked up the first sheet and examined it carefully. Mariah watched his blue eyes scan each section with seemingly serious interest. She found it difficult to remain relaxed in her chair. This was the first time she had ever discussed her passion with another artist, and she found herself growing tense waiting for his opinion of her work.