The King of Threadneedle Street (34 page)

“I am glad you came,” Alysia told her. “Who else is here?”

“A small party,” Lady Chauncey answered. “The Dowager Marchioness, Lady Lambrick, Mr. Cox, Madeline and Lord Christian, Sophia’s children, if you do not mind, and¯”

Alysia raised her eyebrows. “Andrew summoned so many at a day’s notice?”

Lady Devon pursed her lips, looking apologetic. “Last week I also took the liberty of alerting our closest allies to the, ah,
possibility
of a wedding and advised they come to Rougemont, just in case…”

Just in case her heart-wrenching letter and Lord Devon’s diary worked its magic?

“Philip is the second witness,” Lady Devon added, fastening Violet Villier’s famous amethyst necklace around Alysia’s throat. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all. On the contrary, I am honored.” Alysia took the earrings from Lady Devon and put them on herself. “We came to a mutual understanding. He is a most loyal friend. I truly wish him happiness.”

“I am glad. Although, I believe today he may feel a little jealous. Go gently with him, Alysia.”

Minutes later Alysia met Andrew in the ancient stone chapel of Dunsbury castle. A short while afterward, she left the chapel with him as Lady Alysia Tilmore, Countess of Preston.

****

The wedding dinner went over with plenty of laughter and leisure, but once dessert was served, everyone seemed to notice the clock had crept past midnight. The excuses the guests invented for turning in before tea and brandy amused Alysia. Letters needed writing, headaches materialized, and Philip went so far as to claim he needed to polish his saddle. At least he had the good grace to say it with a smirk and a wink.

Finally she was alone with Andrew, and she couldn’t stop smiling. She felt absolutely, positively, free. He, however, seemed nervous. Never had she heard him curse so profusely, fumbling with the long row of tiny buttons down her back. She feared he would take a knife to her corset rather than fiddle with the laces. Finally she got him into bed and tried to calm him by rubbing his shoulders.

“Andrew? When did you first
know
? For me, it was the first time you kissed me, in our cave. The way you looked at me, like I was the eighth Wonder of the World…”

“You broke my nose.”

“You deserved it.”

He chuckled then occupied himself stroking her collar bones. “I always knew.” When she threw herself into a kiss, it wasn’t only to distract him.

He needed no further inspiration.

Who knew what to call the sensation of both intense focus and delirious abandonment? She only knew she was quickly becoming addicted to it. The feel of him everywhere at once overwhelmed her senses. He rested his forehead on hers, leading a dance she couldn’t find words to describe. Hoarse and shuddering, his teeth bared, he seemed helpless, an erotic sight. She couldn’t seem to hold him tightly enough. Every nerve in her body tingled and screamed in bliss. It was even better than
chocolate
. She had no control over the moans escaping her throat; it made Andrew respond in kind.

She clenched her teeth, feeling tightly wound. Agitated.

“Let go,” he rasped. “You will see.”

Her senses enveloped in a sinking sensation, then burst into rays of vivid color. Her body seized. Rolling waves of exotic pleasure radiated from the inside out, ringing in her head, shooting down to curl her toes.

Whatever he had done to make that happen, he did it again.

She cried out, clinging to him, digging her nails into his back —
Too much! Not enough!
She tossed her head back and screamed his name while jolts of intense pleasure-pain finally subsided into luscious waves of sensation she could manage.

She went dizzy. She felt
divine.
Out of her mind.
Home at last.
Only one man could make her feel this way. “Andrew,” she purred, wearing what had to be a silly smile.

The muscles in his neck strained, a growl stuck in his throat as he tensed and drove her into the mattress. He cradled her head in his hands and pled wordlessly, his mouth open on her neck. He sounded like he took a knife wound to the heart, his movements void of the seductive finesse from before. He spoke her name as though it was his dying word, then collapsed, burying his face in her hair.

The consuming blaze riding her pulse settled into a warm glow and the world came back into focus. Alysia closed her eyes as her breath slowed and scraped her nails back and forth across the nape of his neck. It was wet with perspiration, giving his skin a sensuous texture under her fingers. Her entire body pulsed involuntarily as it slowly wound down.

Her heart burned, soul-deep adoration for Andrew.
Her
Andrew. A fierce sweep of emotion sent tears streaming down her temples and onto the pillow before she could stop it. She swallowed a hitch in her throat before it gave her away, but Andrew raised his head off the pillow to look at her.

She saw his eyes brimmed with tears, and threw her arms around his neck and sobbed. She had no idea why. He turned his face into her hair, his shoulders shaking in a rhythm that meant either tears or laughter. “I love you, I love you, Alysia,” he said over and over again.

Once there was silence, he breathed a curse, and she laughed. He only grunted in reply. Probably embarrassed. She held his jaw and rubbed her cheek along his, freshly shaven but grainy with his coarse whiskers. He huffed and rolled onto his side, then tucked her against his chest, holding her tightly. His comforting leather-soap-ink scent in her nose, his warmth — she had never been so utterly content in her entire life.

“I could not begin to describe that,” she confessed.

“Hmm.”

“It also makes me feel… possessive of you, Andrew.”

He hesitated, and she waited for him to speak. “I would like to hear you say it.”

She turned in his arms to face him and looked him in the eye. “I love you Andrew Tilmore, with all my heart. Promise you will never leave me.”

“I swear it.”

She kissed him until they were both short of breath again.

Chapter Twenty-One

When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o’ th’ sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that.

The Winter’s Tale,
William Shakespeare

Her back tickled; she woke to Andrew combing his fingers through her hair. The even sound of his breath, along with his fidgeting, meant he was deep in thought.

“Alysia, are you awake yet?”

“Yesh,” she mumbled. Awake, but in no mood to do anything except lie in the toasty warm bed with his chest pressed to her back.

“You kept those drawings of me all these years?”

“I didn’t let them out of my sight.”

“May I have one of you?”

“What?”

“Could you do it, if I found a large enough mirror? Will you draw yourself for me, like this?”

That is what she thought he meant. Draw herself naked? Art school models were one thing, and Andrew had been entirely other of course, but his idea struck her as odd. But then, he seldom asked her for anything. How could she refuse?

“All right, if that is what you want.”

“Thank you, love. I will fetch your things.” He rolled out of bed in one deft movement, pausing only to wrap a towel around his waist before parading out of his room. His robe was nowhere to be found and he didn’t go looking for it. She supposed roaming one’s house half-naked was a benefit of ownership.

While she waited for Andrew to return, she finally noticed what decorated his bedchamber. How did it escape her before? Staring back at her out of their frames were her own paintings. At least half a dozen; all commissioned by foreign nobility and dignitaries. Or so she had thought.

On the wall closest to the bed hung her “Lady of Cyprus.” One of her favorite projects, she distinctly remembered sending it to Spain for the Conde Cervera. The colors were dynamic; fleshy red, rust and blush-pink against olive, aqua and cerulean.

Geordy had been present when she prepared the canvas and dared her to be the model for Aphrodite. Moreau suggested saluting
The Birth of Venus
, so she had idealized her own features and gave herself auburn hair like Botticelli’s goddess, but it was unmistakably Alysia Villier, as any of her acquaintances would know.

Aphrodite waited under an arbor, leaning against a vine-laced marble column. The banner of fire-colored silk she held to cover herself didn’t float of its own accord as artists tended to portray, but demonstrated correct laws of physics and appeared as though Aphrodite might drop it any moment if she chose.

Her lover, Adonis, approached from the right side, dropping his bow and quiver to the ground at the sight of his lady. Her head faced more toward the viewer, but her eyes locked on Adonis in a tigerish, besotted stare. Adonis was purposeful in his step and his posture aggressive, but tenderness marked his expression. If Alysia had executed the painting successfully, the viewer would wonder if the scene was classical or erotic, pastoral or wanton.

Since her masterpiece of sorts was destined to hang in a Spanish chateau, Alysia allowed the indulgence of portraying Andrew as Adonis, mostly because he fit so naturally into the painting with his dramatic Gallic bone structure. She changed enough of his features to make it ambiguous, including dark bronze curls to match Aphrodite’s hair, but no doubt he knew.

Also hanging in the room she recognized Shakespeare’s Bianca, whom Alysia had disguised as Andrew’s sister, the Duchess of Belmont. She thought a French bishop had commissioned her painting of the boy Jesus teaching the priests at the temple, with Christian as the model, but here it hung instead. A few other paintings and sculptures displayed in the room she had sent to patrons within the past two years, all from among her more light-hearted and romantic work.

Andrew had followed her commissions and bought out her patrons?

She didn’t get a chance to ask him when he returned, hauling the gilt-framed mirror from the gallery on his shoulder. It had to have weighed nine or ten stone, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I am thoroughly impressed!” he announced. “My hair — you did as well if not better than Marsden. I don’t think I remembered to tell you so.” He set the mirror on the bureau opposite the bed, set her sketchpad and satchel of pencils down, and ran his hands through his hair. “How is the light?”

Distracted by the sight of Andrew in motion, a vision of light and shadow in masculine contours, it took her a moment to register the dialogue. “It is fine. Open the east curtains for a little more, since the bed linens will dampen it.”

He did as she ordered then adjusted the mirror to her satisfaction. Once he brought her supplies, she took his hand and pulled him down onto the mattress behind her. She draped his arm over her waist and drew his head into her neck. She tangled her feet in his then stole his towel and tossed it to the floor.

“Are you comfortable?” she asked.

Andrew huffed against her neck and squeezed his arms around her, then reached back for a pillow to prop behind them. She construed that as a
yes.

She lost track of time, sketching while he absently stroked her abdomen.

She wondered if he imagined her with child again, stunned by the realization it was possible. It happened with only one encounter often enough, while others tried for years without success. Alysia wondered which way it would be for them.

It was easy to imagine Andrew as a happy and playful father… A powerful emotion swelled in her throat, and she couldn’t help leaning into his hand as it rubbed over the place that could be round and swollen by spring, if the fates were kind.

“What is it? Are you well?” Andrew’s voice brought her back from a vision of Christmas morning, chaotic with two toddlers tossing paper in the air, a baby on her lap, while Andrew tinkered with a toy train that needed fixing.

Oh — she had quit drawing. Alysia nodded, idiotic tears blurring her vision. She resumed making lines on the paper, trying to blink away the marvelous but distracting image of the adorable chocolate-eyed boy who lived in her dreams, calling her
mama
…

Andrew tried to let her concentrate, but his soft grunts and hums as he watched her draw let her know when he was particularly pleased. Her eyes, her breasts, her hair, and interestingly, the hollow below her navel seemed to evoke his appreciation. “Hmm. Pretty. Very provocative,” he murmured, grazing his fingers along her abdomen.

“Andrew?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I can’t draw there with your hand in the way. Unless you want me to put it in?”

“Oh. Sorry.” He rested his arm in the curve of her waist.

As the drawing took shape, Alysia flushed with pleasure and tried to identify what was so familiar about it. Then she recognized the same possessive devotion in Andrew’s demeanor, and the same adoring expression in hers, which she had so badly envied when she drew the Montegues.
True love,
as Lady Devon had called it.

However, singular to this drawing was a smug, lazily satisfied look in Andrew’s eyes, blazing with warmth. Alysia looked demure and sensuous; it was apparent she had just been well-loved.

Her heart leapt, and she checked the mirror to make sure she hadn’t invented it. No, it was true; they truly looked that way.
Beautiful.

“Beautiful.” Andrew traced the lines with his finger without quite touching the paper. He knew better than to smudge the pencil. “I cannot fathom how you do that, Lisa, but this moves me. I can see that you love me.” He turned her chin to kiss her soundly, then let her finish the drawing.

Once she presented it to him, he studied it for a long while then thanked her again with a kiss that made her breathless and in a mood to provoke him. He put her off, which only made her tease him more.

He unhooked her arms from around his neck and scowled. “Alysia, you can’t be serious. You will not be able to walk tomorrow.”

“Blame it on the art; I always act on inspiration.” She hardly recognized herself as a shameless flirt. She arched her back to stretch, drawing his gaze as she hoped.