Seduction in Mind (28 page)

"It was your idea, Patrick. They should be thanking you."

"But your generosity made it possible, sir. Many of the nobles aren't so civic-minded."

"Our parish can use a new courthouse. The old one was falling down. The decision was simple enough. Now, what else do we have on the agenda?"

By this time, the estate manager was beginning to be genuinely concerned. Sam never spent more than an hour at a time in Patrick's office. "We could look at the reports on the parish schools, sir. There is some question of adding new teachers if the budget allows."

"Why wouldn't it allow? Show me the figures, Patrick. Let's see that we have enough teachers this year."

With both apprehension and elation, Patrick pulled the reports down from the shelf. If his lordship was ill, he hoped someone other than he would notice, too, and see that Lord Ranelagh received help.

"Perhaps we should order some food," Sam suggested, glancing at the clock. "It's well past luncheon. You must be hungry."

While Sam was astonishing his estate manager, Alex was at Harry's. And despite Sam's resentful speculation, she hadn't looked forward to the visit.

Harry was too possessive. If she hadn't already been uninterested in men of that ilk, she would have been after the evening with Sam.

But she tried to be courteous; Harry was so ingratiating and pleased to see her, she didn't have the heart to be cruel. He'd cleaned his studio, brought in enough roses to perfume the block, and had cooked a delicious-smelling stew, which was convenient because she'd forgotten to bring anything.

"Are you hungry?"

How did he know, she wondered, her night of sex having left her ravenous. "I am, just a little," she said.

"You looked like you were. You kept sniffing the air. It's almost ready. Sit down, take off your jacket, and I'll bring you something to eat. Look at my painting while I open some wine."

She should say no to the wine, because she didn't want to stay long, but a glass of wine sounded delicious just then, as the food did—as everything did with her senses still activated by the excesses of last night. Damn Ranelagh anyway. It wasn't fair that he was so extraordinarily good in bed. It made it that much more difficult to walk away from the pleasure. With effort, she forced her thoughts away from the previous night and concentrated on the issues at hand. Sitting down, she shrugged out of her jacket and surveyed Harry's seascape of Brighton. She would offer her encouragement to Harry—an easy enough prospect when his work was so good—eat quickly, and then leave.

Her obligation to visit him on Friday would be fulfilled, and she could return home and indulge in her sulks in peace. She'd already sent the peignoir to Tina with a note explaining her absence. In her discontent, she wasn't in the mood to spar with her mother.

"This is one of the bottles Beecher gave me when he sold my painting of the horse fair. I saved it for us." Harry poured the golden liquid into a goblet for her and filled one for himself. He lifted his glass to her. "To your beauty."

"Thank you. To your beauty
and
talent. The seascape is outstanding."

"I finished it last night because I knew you were coming."

"Beecher will be pleased."

"More important, are you pleased?"

"Of course I am. I love all of your work."

"Now, if you only loved me."

"Darling… don't, please. Let's just have a nice visit."

"Can you stay?"

She knew what he meant and immediately felt awkward.

"We can talk about it later," he said quickly, reading her expression. "I'm just glad you're here."

"Thank you." She lifted her glass to him and then drank a goodly portion of the wine. Other men didn't appeal to her anymore—not that Harry hadn't been sweet at one time. But she found herself thinking almost exclusively of Sam, of what he might say at a moment like this—or what he might be doing now, and she felt restless and desolate and angry all at once.

The stew was wonderful. Harry was an excellent cook, and he'd combined chicken and curry and an assortment of vegetables into a melange of flavors so exquisite, Alex forgot her current obsession for a few moments. "You're as creative a cook as you are a painter. This is fabulous," she said, smiling.

"Everything's fabulous when you're here."

"Harry, you know how I feel about that."

"I won't ask you to do anything you don't want to do, Alex. I just like having you here. I wish you'd come over more often."

"Maybe I will if we can be friends."

"If you want to be friends, we'll be friends," he said in a very grown-up way. "But if you ever want to be more than friends"—he smiled—"keep me in mind."

She gazed at him fondly. "You're adorable."

"I know. You've told me so. And I'm thinking when you get tired of Ranelagh, maybe you'll come and see me again."

Was he prescient? She schooled her face to conceal her shock. "I'll keep that in mind," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

"Make sure you do, because I'll always be here. I love you, Alex, even if you don't love me. And not just because you've helped me with my career." He smiled again. "I didn't even know painters had careers. I thought you painted because you had to."

"Talented people like you paint because they have to. Others wouldn't even know what you mean by that compulsion. You're so good, Harry, I want you to have everything you deserve. And I'll help you in any way lean."

"Except you won't marry me."

She couldn't help but smile. "You'd be tired of me within a month. I'm bossy and demanding, and when you saw me in the morning, you'd realize how old I really was."

"I have seen you in the morning, and you're beautiful. And you're only ten years older than I. That's not so much." His spirits were high because she hadn't said no and she hadn't left and he was never so happy as when he was with her. "And think… you like the way I cook. Wait until you try my plum tart with crème anglaise."

How could she refuse plum tart? She couldn't any more than she could refuse Harry's invitation to sketch with him that afternoon when he had a live model coming to his studio. "I know how much you like to draw from life," he went on to explain, "so when this man at the market said he'd pose anytime I wanted if I helped him with his watercolors, I wasn't about to argue. He's from Syria—Damascus, I think."

"You're spoiling me." She smiled at him, her mood much improved after Beecher's fine wine, which she drank with the plum tart and crème anglaise.

"I want to spoil you. I want to do everything for you. I'd carry you everywhere if you'd let me."

The difference between Harry's devotion and Sam's profligate self-indulgence was profound. She wondered how she could be so irrational as to choose casual sex over ardent feeling.

But there it was. Without explanation or reason.

She couldn't get Sam out of her mind even while this young man was pouring his heart out to her.

Taking herself to task, she forced away her thoughts from the infamous viscount and concentrated on Harry's conversation.

"You always wanted to paint an exotic locale. Why don't we have Larry pose in desert garb. I had Chloe bring over some of the props from her studio."

"How is Chloe?" She was the painter Addison's beautiful daughter and had shown considerable interest in Harry.

"Chloe? Fine, I suppose. I didn't notice. Look what she brought us." And he went on to exhibit enthusiastically a full array of desert robes and weapons.

The model arrived soon thereafter. Harry introduced the young man, stumbling over his name.

"Just call me Ben," the model said kindly. "Everyone does." The handsome man bowed over Alex's hand with great courtesy and grace.

They briefly discussed Ben's homeland, how he'd come to London with the scholars who had been investigating Petra, how he'd been their guide, and once they decided on an appropriate robe and weapons, the afternoon of sketching began.

The work turned out to be just what Alex needed to take her mind from her unwanted fascination with Sam. For those hours while she and Harry worked busily, she didn't once think of him. Not until they began losing the sun did she even take note of the time.

She'd finished a pastel and a small oil study, both preliminary sketches possibly useful in a larger canvas.

Harry had concentrated on a portrait study in oil and had captured Ben's face with such vivid realism, the two-dimensional medium had taken on a sculptural quality.

Ben was pleased with the likenesses. While Alex rested, Harry gave the young model his watercolor lesson. She found herself in good humor; she always was when she was working. As she watched Harry help with the watercolor, she marveled at his talent. His hand moved with such sureness. He was kind and considerate in his instructions, always pointing out Ben's strengths rather than his weaknesses, generously offering praise. Harry really was a very nice young man, she thought warmly. She was glad she'd come to see him.

This very productive afternoon reminded her of what was truly important in her life. Not sex, nor transient pleasure, but her painting and charities, family and friends like Harry. She had so much to bring her satisfaction. While Sam had been a pleasant interlude, she needed to be sensible about their relationship. Passion alone wasn't enough for personal fulfillment, nor could she afford to let her infatuation overwhelm her life. More important, she refused to be so susceptible to his or any man's charm.

When she left, she thanked Harry with genuine warmth. "I so enjoyed myself today. I forget how pleasant it is to work with someone else."

"Come over and paint with me anytime." He smiled, then took her hand and shook it. "You see how well mannered I can be. I didn't try to kiss you once."

"I noticed," she replied, smiling too. "I appreciate your restraint."

He ran his fingers through his long, fair hair and then gently swung his arms and grinned. "Anytime you're in the mood, though, just let me know. I'm always available."

"I'll keep it in mind."

"I just thought I'd mention it…"

"I might take you up on your offer sometime."

"Ben's coming over again on Monday—if you'd like to join us."

"Maybe I will." With a wave and a lighter heart, she left.

Once she was back in her studio, the memories came flooding back, and practical considerations gave way to emotion. Sam had stood right there, or lounged in that chair, kissed her there and there and there. No matter where she looked, she was reminded of him. She dreaded going into her bedroom, where the searing images would be all too intense.

She tried to paint for a time, but the unfinished garden landscape only escalated the level of her unease, the sunlit scene giving rise to lush memories of the wild, thrilling rapture they'd shared. She finally threw her brushes down, turned the canvas around, shut the door to the garden, and poured herself a brandy.

Slumped in a chair, her drink untouched at her side, she bemoaned the emotional turmoil that had plagued her since meeting Sam. It wasn't fair, she thought, that he'd entered her life and disrupted her hard-won contentment, nor, she reflected more bitterly, that he'd so easily changed her mind last night.