River Of Fire (33 page)

Bloody hell, he was perilously close to the seduction Sir Anthony had suggested. The fact that he was not doing it in cold blood didn't mean the consequences would be any less profound.

Kenneth lifted his head and straightened, transforming his embrace from passion to protection. For an instant he felt the protest in Rebecca's body. Then she stilled, resting her head beneath his chin. She was so small. Fragile, almost. She deserved the strong, honest man that Sir Anthony thought he was, not the flawed, deceitful reality.

"If we aren't careful," he said unsteadily, "we might end up at the altar in truth."

"Heaven forbid that we fulfill everyone's expectations." Though her tone was acid, when she pushed away from him her expression was vulnerable.

Her hair was loose again. He was unable to stop himself from stroking his fingers into the thick tresses. Auburn silk, cool fire. "If I kiss you again, Rebecca, kick me. My willpower is nonexistent where you're concerned."

She gave a slow, pleased smile. A few feathers in her mouth and she would look like the Gray Ghost after a successful hunt. "My willpower isn't much, either. Remember, I've spent the last ten years as a ruined woman."

She lifted a hand to draw his head down. Hastily he caught it and pressed a kiss into the palm, maintaining his hold as a gentle way of immobilizing her. "We've rehabilitated you. Try to remember that you're respectable now."

She laughed and shook her head, sending her heavy hair tumbling down her back like rippling silk. The sensuality that he had sensed when they first met was no longer latent but scorchingly visible. As her father had said, she was not a seventeen-year-old virgin.

"Do I look respectable, Captain?" she asked with a touch of mockery.

His aching gaze went over her. Every time they kissed, he learned more about the body beneath her muslin gowns. His right hand, the one that had caressed her breast, involuntarily clenched. "You look like Lilith, the demoness sent to steal the souls of men. Wicked and irresistible." His mouth curved ruefully. "I'm sure she was a redhead."

Rebecca tilted her head, deliberately provocative. "Then you had better go before I steal your soul."

He kissed her hand again, then released it. As he started for the door, she said, "Better take this. You'll need more." She held out a jug of oil of turpentine.

He took it with a nod of thanks. But on his way out,he paused in the doorway for one last glance. She was lounging against the worktable, her hands resting on the edge as she studied him with a sultry gaze that was half artist, half woman. He had the sudden, unnerving thought that she might already have stolen his soul.

He turned and left, walking slowly down the stairs. Of one thing he was sure: He had found the subject for his next painting. A subject that excited him, and might sweep him into the burning depths of a river of fire.

Long after Kenneth left, Rebecca remained leaning against her worktable. She had wanted him to desire her, and he did. She did not trust love or marriage, could not see a future in which she and Kenneth would be together. He would certainly not be a secretary forever. If he managed to save his estate, there would be no room for someone like her in the life of a landed gentleman.

But for a little time, before Kenneth left Seaton House, she might be able to taste the forbidden fruits of passion. She wanted him, and the prospect of conceiving a love child did not frighten her. Indeed, she would welcome having someone to love, and love her in return.

And even if that didn't happen, at least she would have memories to warm her nights.

Kenneth spent the evening and most of the night in his little studio, experimenting with dilute oil paints and burning a small fortune in candles. By the time he retired for a few hours of sleep, he had made a good beginning to the picture that had blossomed in his mind while talking to—and kissing—Rebecca.

The basic drawing was done and he'd laid in the underlying colors of the figure and background. The real challenge still lay ahead. He tried not to let himself hope too much. Nonetheless, he was beginning to feel a cautious optimism about his ability to become a real painter.

That morning it was hard to concentrate on secretarial work when his mind was buzzing with ideas and images, but he managed, eventually. He was working in the office in the early afternoon when Sir Anthony's friend Lord Frazier strolled in.

"Good day," Frazier drawled. "I saw in the newspaper that congratulations are in order." He raised his quizzing glass and examined Kenneth with exaggerated care. "So you're a viscount. Pray forgive me if I ever went through a door ahead of you. I didn't know you bear a title that has precedence over mine."

Though the remark was apparently intended as humor, there as a definite bite to the words. Kenneth suppressed a sigh; he had known that mentioning his rank would elicit this kind of response. It was the first time Frazier had ever addressed him as an equal rather than a menial. Kenneth would have preferred to stay a nonentity in the older man's eyes. "The title hasn't been mine for that long," he said peaceably, "like a new pair of boots, it will take time to become comfortable."

Frazier tapped the quizzing glass against his palm. "So little Rebecca will become Lady Kimball. Have you introduced her to her future stepmother-in-law?"

Kenneth tensed inside. "We chanced to meet Hermione at the Candover ball. You know my stepmother?"

"Oh, yes." Frazier's knowing smile implied that he knew her very well indeed. "She has the most wonderfully wicked humor. Of course, you would know that."

"Absolutely," Kenneth said dryly. "Whenever I think of Hermione, I remember her wonderfully wicked humor."

Frazier lounged against the door frame. "You don't get along with your stepmother?"

Kenneth shrugged. "After so many years in the army, I don't really know her well. She was in good looks at the ball."

"Widowhood becomes her." Frazier's eyes narrowed. "You've done well to win Rebecca. She's quite a prize for a man who is down on his luck. A stroke of good fortune that you came to work for Anthony. Or was it chance? You never did reveal who sent you here."

Kenneth said coolly, "The next time someone hints that I am marrying Rebecca for her money, I will break him in half."

Frazier blinked, as if surprised to find that the tabby he had prodded was really a tiger. "Sorry, no insult intended. Rebecca is so quiet that I really don't know her, even though we first met when she was a babe in arms. Tell me what she's like."

Uncertain how to reply, Kenneth said, "Shy but definite. Intelligent and talented." Thinking that Frazier might not know of her painting, he did not elaborate on that. "An excellent studio assistant and art critic. Her skills and comments are very valuable to Sir Anthony, I think."

"I had no idea she was so involved in his work," Frazier said with genuine surprise.

"As you said, she's quiet." Kenneth smiled involuntarily. "And lovely as a forest sprite."

"There speaks a man in love," Frazier said thoughtfully. "It sounds as if her marriage will be a great loss to Anthony." He glanced at the mantel clock. "Time I was going. Please give Rebecca my best wishes on her betrothal." He sauntered off.

With a shrug, Kenneth returned to work. He'd asked Rebecca to be excused from posing that afternoon. When he finished Sir Anthony's accounts, he would go to his studio and paint. Next to that, malicious aristocratic painters were of no importance.

As soon as Rebecca saw Kenneth at breakfast, she knew that his new approach to painting was going well. He positively vibrated with excitement. Understanding his mood, she was happy to allow him to skip their afternoon session.

His absence didn't interfere with her work. She spent the day on the shadowed background of the corsair picture, adding rich hangings in subtle Oriental patterns to enhance the exotic atmosphere. She also made the Ghost larger than life size and transformed him into a sleek Asiatic hunting cat with tufted ears. The result made her chuckle. She wondered what Kenneth would think of the painting when she finally showed it to him. He would be self-conscious at seeing what she had made of him. But the picture was good, the best work she had ever done.

She dined alone. Her father was attending some kind of Royal Academy function, and Kenneth did not appear at all. She considered going to the attic and reminding him that the house rule was that everyone must attend dinner, but she decided against it. If he was reveling in the first heady joys of successful painting, he should not be disturbed.

After eating, she returned to her studio and worked on the falling woman picture. Though the subject was emotionally draining, she felt driven to finish it. Perhaps when it was done, something dark and difficult would be exorcised from her soul.

Kenneth's studio had a wall in common with hers, and once or twice she heard faint sounds. But never an opening door. The man must be obsessed. Not sure whether she was worried or merely infernally curious, she finally decided to take him some food. Though his mind might have lost track of time, his stomach would surely welcome nourishment.

She went to the kitchen and piled a platter with sliced meat and cheese, added half a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. Then she made the long climb to the attic again.

Balancing the tray with one hand, she tapped on his studio door. Nothing. Beginning to feel real concern, she quietly turned the knob.

She needn't have worried. The light of half a dozen candles showed Kenneth working at his easel with utter absorption. Since he and the canvas were at right angles to the door, he did not notice her entrance. His brow was furrowed and his hair fell across his forehead as he wielded a narrow brush that looked absurdly small in his massive hand.

She smiled at the smudge of paint on his cheek. Red ocher, at a guess. He had taken off his boots, probably to avoid making noise that might disturb the servants sleeping in the rooms at the other end of the attic. He'd also removed his coat and cravat, and his open shirt revealed an inviting glimpse of chest. She studied him with frank pleasure. The muscular body and athletic grace made him a fine pirate or warrior. But the real Kenneth was far more complex and interesting than a Byronic hero. Aloud she said, "I thought you might want something to eat."

He pivoted with a soldier's swiftness, then smiled ruefully. "Sorry. You startled me." He glanced at the darkness outside the window. "I missed dinner, didn't I?"