The King of Threadneedle Street (8 page)

“Ha! Sorry, Lisa. I didn’t mean to frighten you, only tease you a bit.” He turned before she managed to erase her melancholy expression, and his face fell. “Oh, Lisa. What is it?” He tried to gather her in an embrace, but she pushed his arms away.

“Thank you, my lord. I am quite well.” She changed the subject. “You have returned from the hunt already?” A sideways peek at the clock confirmed it was yet mid-morning. She had expected them home that afternoon.

“Oh. Aye. Well, I went with them as far as Tilmore Lodge, and we had a few pheasants each. The others decided to ride on across the stream and circle back around this afternoon. I didn’t want to spend my day listening to that horrid Belmont’s boasting and floating my eyeballs in grotty tavern ale.”

That earned a half-smile from Alysia; one corner of her mouth pulled up. “You didn’t say so, of course.”

“Of course not. I claimed my gelding threw a shoe — I pried it off when no one was looking. I only hope my father will look after Christian.”

Alysia could not help her full-fledged smile at this. Andrew didn’t trust the marquess to take care of his own son? She sighed and closed her book.

“No — let me see.” He made a grab for it and amended, “Please?”

Alysia conceded and retreated to her chair while Andrew thumbed through her sketches. The front of the book held vignettes of the family, scenes of the waterfront at the lake and various animals at the park. She enjoyed his knowing smiles; she had captured Andrew’s family at rather telling moments, mostly flattering but others less so. She could see Andrew understood her perspective, and it afforded her no small pleasure.

It was obvious when he arrived at her drawings of the
Dying Gaul.
He turned his head to the east windows and followed the line of light as it cast upon the statue. His eyes narrowed in understanding. His face fell, and he studied each page soberly. Then he sank into the chair next to her and dropped his head into his hands.

“Alysia…”

She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but only guessed that she had perhaps been too private in her interpretation of suffering.

He held out a finger to trace the lines, but withdrew. “The
Dying Gaul?
” He turned his discerning gaze on her.

“One of my favorites. He reminds me of you,” she confessed. The heat of his stare was too intense; she diverted her eyes to the case of pastels in her hand.

“But I have no moustache.” Playful, but she knew he was trying to draw her out.

“The resemblance is in his form and his masculine expression.”

“But he is
dying
.”

“But not in despair. He is brave. He meets his fate proudly.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief. “He is
naked.
Surely you don’t imagine
me
that way.”

“As an admirer of great art I am quite unaffected by heroic nudity in the erotic sense.”

His eyebrows raised into his tumbled hair.

She took her book back and looked again at the drawings he found so disturbing. Admittedly, from the perspective of an objective viewer, there was indeed a great deal of emphasis on suffering.

Alysia noticed Andrew was removing his clothes. He often shed his jacket, waistcoat, and necktie in her presence, but he now had his shirt off and was unfastening his trouser buttons.

“Andrew! What are you doing?”

“You said you wanted to sketch me?” He held his arms out. “I want to be sketched. No better time than now.”

He shut the door of the salon. The turning lock echoed, a sinister sound.

“But — I… I had a portrait in mind. A decent one.”

“Oh, it will be better than decent.” He tossed his boots and stockings into a chair.

“I mean,
presentable
. To the public.” She watched with wide eyes as Andrew wadded his trousers and launched them into the chair as well.

“You said you aren’t averse to heroic nudity.”

“But not yours!” She felt on the verge of panic. “Besides, what is heroic about this?”

“You are the artist with the vivid imagination. Make something up.”

He tossed his drawers into her lap, and a whimper squeaked from her throat. She heard him drop onto the settee opposite her.

“Well?”

Alysia reined in the giddy feeling making her lightheaded and opened the book to a blank page. She selected a pencil then looked up at him.

Andrew reclining on the settee, naked and glorious, took her breath away. His long limbs draped casually over the sides and propped on the cushions, were perfectly muscular, with a latent strength she wanted to capture. His proportion measured closely to the
heroic canon
, the template physique Michelangelo used to sculpt the gods. A living specimen lay before her like a fantastical offering.

Right away she noticed the details that mattered; the lazy turn of his foot so near the powerful stretch of leg, the impatient curl of his fingers indicating skilled and sure hands, and the sunlight glinting on the ends of his hair and eyelashes.

He was more beautiful than her beloved Dying Gaul, and more powerful. Broad, proud shoulders framed a torso splendidly muscled but not so bulky or dramatically veined that it lacked romance. His chest invited touch; it looked warm and promised shelter. She wanted to capture that as well.

Andrew stared back, unashamed as she studied him. Flattering, the way he tilted his head, flexing the muscles of his neck and shoulders; she would tell him to hold it that way when she drew it. He wore the expression she desired from him; confident, playful, with that familiar bewitching sparkle of mischief in his clear brown eyes. The near-perfect harmony of his striking angular features could only be the product of a dozen generations of beautiful people breeding more beautiful people. That was academic to reproduce, but the stormy sweep of his brow and eager humor of his mouth would be a challenge.

What she had been discovering piece by piece, was that Andrew lived in harmony with his dramatic extremes: His jovial humor and dreadful temper, his inclination to be lazy and his financial genius, his London sophistication and fondness for his home in the country.

This was her Andrew, precisely as she would capture him in her memory. If he was willing to admit by word and deed they were in love, then she could declare it in lines and strokes on paper. She tucked the pad under her arm and approached him, returning the devilish smirk he sent her. “The light is perfect, Drew. Hold this pose if you can.”

She adjusted how his arm draped over the back of the settee and nudged his shoulder back a bit to remove the shadow it cast on his chest. His fingers toyed with the embroidered pattern of the fabric but stilled when she noticed. “No, go ahead and do that.” She tilted his jaw and angled it directly forward then slightly downward, so that he was looking from under his eyebrows. Lastly, she ran her fingers through his hair and let it fall carelessly on his forehead, then took a step back.

“Does my lady approve?” His voice was thick with humor, and a tremor of nervousness she hadn’t known he felt. He didn’t look nervous at all, a vision of a dark incubus primed for seduction. But there was a contradiction of soulful tenderness in his expression that softened his erotic impact. Again, another fascinating contrast in extremes.

“Andrew, you are an artist’s dream.” She kissed him on the forehead and brushed across his jaw. He hummed in response, a sound of satisfaction. The simple exchange caused a bizarre reaction; she was seized by a whim, a temptation that flashed in urges and uncivilized hungers before she quelled it.

Unaffected by heroic nudity, indeed!

She sat back in her chair and began to draw after taking a deep breath. It came easily, seemed simple. She was hardly aware of smiling as she sketched. Andrew was a perfectly-behaved model. He didn’t distract or tease her and obediently adjusted his pose when she asked.

Alysia used light and shadow dramatically but reserved brilliant colors for the most intense expressions such as his eyes, the glint of sunlight in his hair, and to highlight his musculature. Muted tones shaped all else, which drew attention to his imposing demeanor. Indeed she prided herself on her meticulous detail and lifelike representations, and this was her finest yet.

The only problem? Now she was feeling short of breath, overheated, and achy with a burning feeling that crawled from her core to the tips of her fingers, brushing every nerve along the way. Now that she had layered the shading with color, the Andrew in the drawing appeared as though he was deciding whether to snooze or prowl off the sofa and ravish the viewer right there on the floor. His dark, direct gaze seemed to say,
If you like what you see, then come and get it.

Was it the subject or the drawing that provoked her so?

A heady sensation escalated her agitated state — fascination with his navel as it contracted with his exhalation. She had to stare then draw, stare then draw, and again and again, to capture it just right. In a way she was
touching
every glorious inch of him. Not without great effort did she clear her mind and resume blending flesh tones in pastel over the ridges of his abdomen and the provocative lines over his hips.

Mindless of the time as it passed, when she had nearly finished, she saw that the light through the windows had crawled higher into noon skies. Only one task remained. She had waited in hope that the lapsing time would resolve the situation. “Andrew?” She willed herself not to sound as dry-mouthed as she felt. “Can you, ah, do anything about that?”

He knew what she meant. “Only one thing, my love, but I don’t think you would go that far for the sake of your drawing. Or would you?”

“No.”

“Then you will have to render as you observe
, ma belle artiste
.” He winked. “And you
will
do me justice, I trust?”

Alysia pursed her lips and set her pencil to the paper.

Chapter Five

And thus I clothe my naked villainy

With odd old ends stol’n out of holy writ,

And seem as saint, when most I play the devil.

King Richard III,
William Shakespeare

She was summoned for an audience with Lord and Lady Courtenay. Unsurprisingly, they
knew
. Andrew did not have subtlety in his repertoire.

No, she had not taken Lord Preston as a lover. No, she assured his mother, she was not carrying his child. Not even she, the Incomparable Delilah could work so swiftly, she had jested. Lady Courtenay had mistaken her incredulity for insolence. Yes, she understood the potential Lord Preston stored in his future and all that lay at stake.

They simply could not believe she had no designs on Andrew; that she wasn’t trying to throw herself at him in a desperate attempt to avoid Viscount Harringer. She took little offense; two years before they had given her almost the same lecture. As she had then, Alysia surprised them by agreeing with everything they said on duty and propriety, and knowing one’s station, and so on.

Alysia agreed to their wishes without intending to fulfill them. She had known all along it would be impossible to serve the interests of everyone at Ashton, but now it seemed that in order to do what she believed was correct, she must offend them all.

She sat at her desk and wrote a desperate letter to the one person she hoped could help, a Mr. Conrad Cox, whom she had never met. Her mother had trusted Mr. Cox as her solicitor, and he had handled her affairs when she died.

With regret, Alysia secured the letter to a small bundle and took one last longing glance at its contents. She left early the next morning to post it herself without the knowledge of anyone at Ashton. It was her last hope.

****

Daisy, Lord Preston’s most devoted mastiff, sat expectantly on Alysia’s toes, holding a folded note in her mouth. Alysia took it and scratched behind Daisy’s ears. The paper was damp and the ink blurred. The familiar untidy scrawl read,
Have you decided?

Andrew appeared studious, his head bent over a letter at the writing desk, avoiding her gaze. She would know his sad excuse for penmanship anywhere. She glanced at the others in the drawing room; Lord Courtenay and the duke as thick as thieves seated by the hearth, and the ladies at needlepoint under the lamps. Lord Christian sat by Alysia with his studies while she sketched.

The note reminded her uncomfortably that there was a rather private page in her sketchbook. She hadn’t offered to give it to Andrew, wanting it for herself. It would soon be one of few mementos she had of him.

Andrew didn’t know he was at that moment the subject of her final piece at Ashton; a life-sized portrait of his head. She had finished blending highlights from the lamplight on his face and now cross-hatched the waves of his hair, more unruly than usual because he scrubbed a hand through it each time he paused to concentrate. Christian sat in her line of view, so it appeared she watched him as he studied instead of evaluating Andrew for her drawing.

Alysia and been captivated by his expression as he worked at the desk, intensely focused on his papers and ledgers. No one dared tell Lord Preston it was gauche to attend to business while entertaining; his financial genius and its mysterious workings were a sacred cow at Ashton. Andrew did whatever he pleased, including sending clandestine notes via mastiff messenger.

Alysia had only her drawing pencil; she wrote underneath his line,
Decided what?
She refolded it and gave it back to Daisy, gingerly avoiding being drooled on. Andrew subtly snapped his fingers under the desk, and Daisy trotted over to deliver the note. Andrew read it and shot Alysia a look of impatient disapproval. He sent Daisy back.

He had written,
Your situation, of course.

She replied,
I have been sold to an Albanian pasha. Salam.

He wrote,
Not funny. Answer me! I want to know what will happen after the wedding tomorrow.

Daisy was enjoying herself, but Alysia worried they would attract attention. She wrote on the margin of Christian’s page of notes, Please ask Andrew to come over and help with your arithmetic.