Silver Splendor (11 page)

“Collecting brings enjoyment to the investor,” Elizabeth said. “Instead of letting your money gather dust in a bank vault, you can take pleasure in gazing at the art in your own home.”

“Provided one purchases only the old masters,” Lady Melton said, her eyes appearing owl-like through the lorgnette. “However can one enjoy these silly aesthetic painters?”

“Quite so,” her husband agreed. “Remember the twaddle that fellow Whistler tried to pass off as art? Might as well fling a pot of paint at a wall! Get the same result. The same result, indeed!”

“Whistler.” Marianne aimed a sly look at Elizabeth. “He’s an American painter, isn’t he?”

“By birth, yes,” Elizabeth said lightly, “but he’s lived in England for so many years he might well consider himself more
your
countryman.”

Venom hardened Marianne’s face. Before she could reply, Peebles announced dinner. The cadaverous butler led the way into a sumptuous dining room where a pair of liveried footmen waited to serve the meal. Delicious aromas emanated from the silver serving platters on the mahogany sideboards.

Elizabeth found herself seated between Lady Melton and Cicely. Across the snowy damask tablecloth, Marianne lost no time engaging Lord Nicholas in low pitched dialogue. Lady Beatrice adroitly took charge of the conversation at the other end of the table. Elizabeth soon grew bored with the exchange of social chit chat and the discussion of Queen Victoria’s upcoming visit to Balmoral Castle.

She concentrated on her meal, reveling in the asparagus soup, the poached salmon, the veal in cream sauce. Never in her life had she eaten such exquisite food. Lady Beatrice kept a watchful eye out, as if expecting Elizabeth to disgrace the family. Couldn’t the woman at least give her guest credit for having the common sense to observe which fork or spoon to use? Irked, Elizabeth felt tempted to line the tiny French peas along her knife blade and eat like a true barbarian.

Her annoyance disintegrated as she stole a sidelong look at Lord Nicholas. Though still angered by his falsification of her past, her admiration for his looks remained undimmed. The light from the ornate silver candelabra set his cheekbones into sharp relief. Generations of privilege and wealth had given him the confidence no amount of tutoring could supply. He fed her starving senses in a way mere food could never satisfy. Her fingers ached to test the texture of his chestnut hair, to examine the whorls of his ears, to undo that formal white necktie and investigate the sinews and muscles beneath.

The chirp of Marianne’s laughter distracted Elizabeth; unexpected resentment stabbed her. Whatever did Lord Nicholas see in that silly girl? With the attention he paid her, one would assume she possessed a fine intellect and a charming character. Of course, Elizabeth told herself waspishly, maybe the earl didn’t care if a woman were small minded so long as she was willing to yield to his physical needs.

Heat chased over her skin as she imagined him naked. Her corset seemed to squeeze tighter, forcing the breath from her lungs. Hastily she looked down at her plate as a footman whisked away the remains of dinner and then served dessert. Beset by a fierce longing to escape this stilted setting, she trifled with the gooseberry pudding, stirring the fluffy substance until it turned into a pale puddle.

Once the interminable meal ended, she retired with the ladies to the drawing room. She was bored silly by the chitchat and about to plead a headache by the time Lord Melton and the earl rejoined the women. Relieved, Elizabeth decided she’d experienced enough of polite society to last a lifetime.

But Lord Melton sank to the sofa beside his wife. “Play something for us, my dearest Marianne,” he said.

“You do that Chopin piece quite well. Quite well, indeed.”

“I wouldn’t dream of boring all of you,” his daughter demurred.

“You could never bore us,” Lord Nicholas said, smiling indulgently from his stance by the mantel.

“Well, if you insist.” Clearly pleased by his encouragement, Marianne sat at the mahogany pianoforte.

As the girl began to play a sonata, Elizabeth forced herself to sit still. She resisted yawning by exercising her willpower. Everyone else seemed to listen with well bred interest… even Cicely. Then the girl caught Elizabeth’s glance and winked, and Elizabeth had to swallow a giggle.

She wondered if the earl, too, hid his boredom. He was such an expert at deception that even with her skills of observation she could not detect his true feelings.

The recital ended and Marianne demurely accepted her compliments. Elizabeth managed to maintain a civil smile even as Lord Nicholas kissed the girl’s hand. When at last they stood in the marble foyer after saying good night to the Meltons, Elizabeth took a deep breath to ease her trepidation. His false presentation of her background still rankled. She would confront the earl now, before this charade got out of hand.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Lord Hawkesford, I wonder if you would be so kind as to show me where I’ll be working?”

“Don’t bother the earl with trivialities,” Lady Beatrice said. “A servant can direct you in the morning. Come along now, Miss Hastings.”

“No.” Lord Nicholas’s quiet voice echoed through the huge room. “You and Cicely go on upstairs. I believe Miss Hastings has something she’d like to discuss with me.”

Lady Beatrice had no choice but to obey. Pursing her lips in disapproval, she started up the curving staircase. Cicely, looking mystified and curious, trailed her aunt.

Elizabeth watched until they disappeared through the opulent doorway at the head of the stairs. Her heart surged as she turned to see the earl gazing at her. Something gleamed in his eyes, something warm and intriguing that she could not quite identify… something that made a delicious shiver scuttle over her skin.

“Shall we?” he said.

He offered her his arm. Forcing a smile, she clasped his hard muscles. Lord Nicholas led her through a dizzying maze of hallways until at last they arrived at a room shrouded in shadows. As he struck a match to light the lamps, Elizabeth breathed in the musky damp scents of earth and plants. That curious combination of alarm and excitement rippled through her again.

They were alone.

He had her all to himself. Lighting the gas jets, Nicholas felt an unexpected rush of elation. Though the muffled chime of the library clock tolled the hour of one, he felt vital and invigorated. The evening had been interminable, the company of his aunt’s friends tedious. Weary of acting the gentleman, weary of trying to find something interesting about the giggly Marianne, he’d spent the time comparing her dull personality to Elizabeth’s sparkling wit.

With a flick of his wrist Nicholas doused the match and dropped it into an empty clay pot. Turning, he saw Elizabeth gazing intently at him. His blood surged in response to her frank stare. There was nothing coy about her, nothing artificial. Even in that high necked evening dress, with her black curls tamed into a ladylike chignon, she had a luster of life about her, an irresistible newness that reached out to him.

Seeing the determined look in her eyes, he knew she meant to start another argument. “So, what do you think?” he asked, to delay her.

She blinked. “About what?”

Nicholas made a sweeping gesture. “Does the room meet with your approval?”

“My approval?” Elizabeth looked startled, as if she’d never expected him to seek her opinion.

She twirled to examine the conservatory. Wonderment crept over her face, making her eyes shine and her lips part. Nicholas experienced the curious sensation of seeing the room through the freshness of her gaze: the steep pitched roof of darkened glass panes, the fanlight windows and Doric columns, the deep shadowy niches overgrown with greenery, the silent fountain topped by a stone satyr.

She clasped a hand to her bosom, drawing his eyes to the fine shape of her breasts. “It’s magnificent. Like a Grecian temple.”

He felt ridiculously pleased. “My father had the conservatory built for my mother. She raised camellias here.”

Elizabeth bent to touch a glossy green leaf. “Does no one care for them anymore?

“When my mother died not long after Cicely’s birth, my father ordered the room closed. The servants keep the plants watered, but…” How could he explain the tender devotion the cold and reserved Justin Ware had shown toward his beloved wife?

The moistness in Elizabeth’s eyes nonplussed Nicholas. In that soft, exotic voice, she said, “You must have been just a boy when she died.”

Long buried pain stirred inside him. Shifting his gaze to the twining growth of an ivy, he said with a curtness intended to dose the subject, “I was ten.”

The gas jets hissed into the silence; water plopped faintly from a faucet on the far wall. “Nothing can ever make up for the loss of a mother,” Elizabeth said.

The sympathy and sadness in her voice drew his gaze to hers. Remembering her own recent loss, he felt a sudden kinship with her, a bond of shared grief that transcended their differences.

Impulsively he took a step nearer. “Do you know what I regret most? That I never had the chance to know my mother as an adult. That I have only a child’s memories of her.” His candor surprised him. He’d never before expressed his sorrow to anyone. Never.

“How sad that must make you,” Elizabeth said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Unlike the mumbled platitudes he’d heard from others, her words vibrated with sincerity. Again he found himself curious about her past. Her innate refinement, her delicate grace belied her uncommon upbringing. Tonight she had proven herself capable of holding her own in society. Who was she? A peer poor relation fallen on hard times? Why had she grown up in America? Nicholas renewed his resolve to ferret out the significance of the signet ring, to identify the noble house denoted by the swan coat of arms.

Her shoes tapped on the flagstones as Elizabeth walked to a nook overflowing with vegetation. She sank to her knees before a shadowy bush, the silk of her gown rustling. Walking closer, Nicholas saw her part the waxy leaves to reveal one perfect pink blossom.

“How curious,” he mused, crouching beside her. “This isn’t the season for camellias to bloom.”

Her rapt gaze studied the many petaled blossom. “In America we’d call it a maverick. Something wild and rare and free.”

Like you,
Nicholas wanted to say. He felt the sudden fierce desire to shower her with flowers, to see her lying naked in a bed of blooms…

He reached for the stem. “Why don’t you take it?”

Her quick fingers caught his wrist. Beseeching and beautiful in the gaslight, her eyes met his. A deluge of desire swamped his senses. Her lush scent, mingled with the odors of damp earth and untamed undergrowth. He could think of little else save the nearness of her body, the firmness of the fingers enclosing his wrist… and the need throbbing heavily in him.

His intense physical attraction to her still surprised him. Why did he feel such a powerful longing for an artist, a woman whose way of life was so foreign to his own?

“Please don’t,” she said, her voice husky. “The camellia belongs here, in its natural setting.”

“As you wish,” he murmured. “This room belongs to you now, Elizabeth. I promise to do my utmost to give you whatever you need. You have only to ask.”

By the look on her face, she must have realized he meant more than material goods. Her lips parted; her fingers tightened on his wrist. For one wild moment he harbored the hope that she felt an answering desire for him.

But her hand dropped to her side, leaving only the imprint of her warmth on his skin. She gazed at him with the same absorbed attention she’d afforded the camellia, the same candid consideration she’d shown him upon first entering the conservatory. Fleetingly he imagined her as a young girl, studying life with bold interest and wide, staring eyes, as if she found the smallest detail awesome and fascinating.

A shy smile wavered on her lips. “There
is
one thing I’d like.”

“Name it.”

She hesitated. “Once I get my studio set up here,” she said slowly, “will you sit for me?”

The question crashed into his passion. Desire drained away, leaving him empty and disappointed. Surging to his feet, he walked off, hearing the echo of her stinging denouncement:
You have a pleasing face. Beyond that, nothing about you interests me.

“I’m sorry,” he said coldly. “That’s out of the question.”

Forehead furrowed, she cocked her head. “But why?”

Why, indeed? Nicholas wondered. Looks of admiration from other women had never bothered him. The truth struck with galling force. He meant no more to Elizabeth Hastings than the flawless camellia, yet he wanted her interest to be more personal; he wanted her to value the man more than the insignificant shell of physical perfection. The knowledge left him feeling curiously vulnerable, open to the ache of unfulfilled needs.

“Sitting for me wouldn’t have to take up much of your time,” she hastened to say. “I’m sure you’ll find that —”

“No.”

The color drained from Elizabeth’s face, leaving her cheeks as pale as shy petals. Hands clasped before her, she remained seated on her heels, the magenta silk of her gown framing her thighs. A most unladylike position… and yet somehow it suited her.

Suddenly impatient to escape her dispassionate interest, Nicholas said curtly, “It’s growing late, so why don’t you tell me the real reason you wished to come here? I’m sure it wasn’t to wheedle me into posing for you like a bowl of fruit.”

Her mouth tensed and her shoulders squared. “I think you know why,” she said. “I resent the deceitful way you introduced me to your friends.”

He welcomed her anger, welcomed the opportunity to return to familiar ground. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone formal. “I would have warned you of my intentions earlier had I known you were coming down to dinner.”

She slammed her palms against her thighs.
“Warned
me! Do you suppose
that
would have excused your deception? You deliberately misled Lord and Lady Melton, told them a passel of lies, as if I were inadequate.”