The Nude (full-length historical romance) (6 page)

He climbed in behind her, filling the small space with his full frame. Without a word of apology, he dropped down on the upholstered bench across from her, trapping her legs between his thighs and then rapped on the roof with his fist. The carriage jerked into motion, tossing her against the carriage’s leather squab.

“It is good to escape that dratted rain, wouldn’t you say so, my lady?” He had the audacity to lean back and stretch his arms out along the back of the bench as if abducting helpless ladies was a common practice. “I despise the interior of carriages. Too cramped and airless for my liking, but on a day like today I gladly make allowances.”

She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Sir.” Her teeth chattered with the word. “Are we acquainted? For I don’t recall you being introduced to me at Lord Baneshire’s ball, and I cannot imagine where else I would have met you.” She struggled to draw a calming breath. “Are you a friend of my deceased husband?”

“You’re shivering.” He reached toward her legs.

She squealed and drew her feet up from the floor.

He gave her a puzzled look but kept his hand beneath her bench. “Here,” he said. He grabbed her ankles and set her feet on a heated brick. “That should warm you.” He then produced a blanket from underneath his own bench and draped it over her legs.

It wasn’t the cold that was making her shiver so; her heart fluttered wildly in her throat. She’d been abducted. Why ever would he want to kidnap her? Her husband’s inheritance wouldn’t buy a loaf of bread, much less warrant a ransom.

“W-what do you want from me?”

Instead of answering, he leaned forward in the seat. “I know all about Dionysus’s painting,” he said softly.

“Dionysus?” Elsbeth’s anger heated the entire compartment. “Dionysus!”

She curled her tiny hands into a pair of tight fists and shook them at him. “I have no idea why he’d wish to ruin me. I don’t even know the man. And—and if you think I’m the kind of woman portrayed in that painting, you are sorely mistaken. I am a God-fearing woman, chaste and faithful. Society may believe me fallen, but I
assure
you,
sir
, my morals are above reproach. I will fight you to my death if need be.”

The stranger laughed. The hearty sound filled the carriage as he tossed off his top hat and gave his head a good shake. “My dear lady,” he said. “I’m not looking to steal your virtue, but to restore it.”

She regarded him with grave caution. “Who are you?”

He sobered. His dark eyes flashed from the shadows. She wished she could see his face more clearly. She considered herself fairly competent at reading a man’s intentions—especially the depraved ones.

“Forgive me, my lady. The company of the gentler species is foreign to me.” He inclined his head a notch. “Allow me to present myself. I am Edgeware. And you are correct. We have yet to be introduced.”

“Edgeware?
The
Marquess of Edgeware?” She couldn’t believe she’d heard him correctly. Edgeware was a well-known name. A powerful political figure. The matrons of the
ton
all clamored for his attendance at the most elite of events. More often than not, he’d disappoint the poor women, refusing all but a select few engagements to attend every year.

A powerful recluse.

A mysterious bachelor.

“I would have acted sooner, but I only recently learned of your predicament.” He settled back in his seat again. “And unfortunately I have other pressing matters also requiring my attentions.”

“Predicament?” she cried. “Predicament? That’s a blasted understatement! I, sir, have been ruined, utterly ruined. And even so I would be able to survive this scandal if it only affected me. But my cousins are suffering every bit as much.” She closed her eyes and remembered the tears glistening on Lauretta’s cheeks after Sir Donald had stomped on her heart. “More so.”

She drew a breath and straightened. “For them, I intend to find this—this Dionysus. I intend to expose him, to force him to answer for what he’s done. If you can help me, I implore that you do.”

Her abductor tugged at his gloves. “I will help restore your reputation,” he said, crisply. “However, I cannot allow you to act against Dionysus.”

“
Why?
Why would you help me? I don’t even know you.” A prickle of unease crept down her spine. In her experience, gentlemen, despite their supposed code of honor, rarely acted without expecting a sharp payment in return for their troubles.

Only one man, her uncle, had ever treated her with unfailing kindness. She winced, imagining how he must now be regretting his invitation to have her live with his family.

“True, I do not know you.” He leaned forward. The interior lantern illuminated his face. His haunting eyes latched onto hers. “I do know, however, that you’ve been wronged. And though I cannot discuss this matter much further, I can tell you that I
bear
the brunt of responsibility for Dionysus and his actions. I am his keeper, of sorts. You have nothing to worry about with me.” He reached out and stroked her cheek. A tremor of alarm shot through her when his touch sparked a pleasing tingle that spiraled through her chest. Startled, she pulled away as sharply as if he had stung her.

“I will set things right for you.” He sunk back into the shadows of the carriage. “But understand, too, I’ll do what I must to protect Dionysus from your efforts to expose him.”

He rapped on the roof.

The carriage, Elsbeth was shaken to notice, had already drawn to a halt. A cloaked footman, damp from the pouring rain, swung open the door. She peered out the opening and recognized the highly ornate front door to the Baneshire town house only a few feet away.

“Thank you for the carriage ride,” she said as she scooted across the bench.

“I am hosting a house party next week at my country home in Dorset. Attend the party, my lady.” His deep voice rumbled in the darkness. “I’ll accept no excuse for your absence.”

With a quick nod and a silent vow that she’d do well to avoid any and all events involving the Marquess, she dashed through the rain and inside the town house. After depositing her dripping oilskin cape with Tallford, Baneshire’s grim-faced butler, she hurried up the stairs despite Olivia’s attempts to delay her. Elsbeth managed to make it up to her room without missing a stride.

“Imagine that,” she said to her empty bedchamber as she leaned against the door. “He expects me to attend a house party.” Her heart raced and a fresh rush of heat burned her cheeks.

She may have escaped his carriage, but she feared the abduction was far from over.

She’d barely a moment to hatch an excuse for getting out of the invitation before a light knock sounded at the door. Elsbeth jumped. “Go away, Olivia.”

The door eased opened. Molly, Elsbeth’s rather unconventional lady’s maid, one of the very few reminders of her life with her dead husband, backed into the room with a tea tray in her arms.

“Beg pardon, milady,” Molly drawled in her less-than-perfect English. “Tallford said you’d be needin’ a pot o’ tea?”

“Yes, thank you Molly. I would also appreciate a hand changing into a dry gown.”

“Gracious, milady.” Molly closed the door after her and rushed to set the tray down. She tugged at Elsbeth’s damp gown like a nervous mother hen. “We must get this off you before you catch your death. You should have r
u
ng for me right away.”

Elsbeth allowed Molly to fuss over her. Soon she was dressed in a serviceable wool gown that was not only warm but also extremely comfortable.

It was not at all the thing a fashionable woman would dare wear. Her late husband would have claimed she looked as dowdy as a washerwoman. She smoothed out the deeply creased skirt while Molly reluctantly excused herself from the chamber. Once again alone, she pressed her ear to the door, straining as she listened for evidence of her cousins lurking in the hall.

This afternoon, she heard blessedly few sounds. A creak here and a moaning floorboard there. Alone, and after surviving such an adventure in the dreary cold, she felt as if she could finally breathe easily.

Before she realized what she was doing, she knelt beside her bed. The day she’d moved into this chamber she had shoved a carefully wrapped package underneath it.

Her hand quickly found the flat package wrapped in a length of pink and white fabric. She sat on the bed and brushed a layer of dust from i
ts surface. A pink ribbon criss
crossed the package. It was a ribbon she’d worn in her hair when she was still a young woman as silly and carefree as her cousins. She pulled one end of the ribbon. The knot loosened and the fabric slipped away.

With a heavy heart she picked up the stiff canvas and ran her finger over the beautiful oil painting. At one time she owned many such works.

In a fit of rage she had destroyed them all—all except this one.

Why had this small painting survived? The work of art, not much larger than a sheet of foolscap, gave life to a simple scene. The artist must have stretched out flat on his stomach in the midst of a field of wildflowers to capture such an intimate perspective of the deep purple and bright yellow flowers waving in the soft summer breeze.

In the forefront, a single white daisy leaned forward, almost reaching out from the canvas, so close it must have tickled the artist’s nose.

A mist of tears clouded Elsbeth’s vision. She blinked, hoping to hold back the memories and the pain. The life, the freedom, the unbridled happiness in the painting pricked her heart like a broken promise.

Fields of wildflowers were long gone from her life.

She could scarcely remember the love she’d once felt toward the creator of the painting. The feeling had changed, become twisted, and transformed into something ugly.

Even so, she still appreciated the passion in the artist’s bold brush strokes. She’d never seen any other artist work the same way, plying the paints so heavily on the canvas, but at the same time evoking a light, sometimes playful effect. Nor had she ever seen a painter reveal so much of the deep longing that must be hidden in the artist’s heart.

She’d never again seen such a painting . . . not until Dionysus. Why was he so determined to torment her? Damn the man to Hades and back.
Who was he?

Were the years of pain and horror she’d suffered living with her husband not enough? Was the artist determined to deny her even a moment of peace? A glimmering chance for happiness? She raised her hand, poised to tear the aging material and destroy the last remaining evidence of her ability to love.

Her arm, hanging in the air, froze.

“I can’t.” She tossed the painting aside and collapsed on the middle of her bed.

“
I can’t
,” she sobbed.

* * * * *

Nigel lifted the neatly folded handkerchief Lady Mercer had left on the empty bench as the carriage pulled away from the Grosvenor Square town house.

“Well, well,” he said. The damp scent of lilacs and orange blossoms lingered with his cologne on the soft linen. “She’s not quite the wilting flower I’d expected.”

In fact, after meeting her, he decided she was much more a mystery now than when she was just a beautiful figure sculpted on canvas.

A canvas now safely locked away in his private vault.

Her fiery spirit was delightfully intriguing. It pained him that he’d have to block her efforts for revenge. He
’d
much rather
fight
battles for the lady than wag
e
one against her.

He could easily crush her. But destruction was the last thing on his mind.

Perhaps . . . perhaps . . .

Perhaps he wouldn’t wage a war against Lady Mercer. Perhaps he could bend her will to suit his own purposes.

He smiled at the prospect. Seduction wouldn’t be simple. He wasn’t a fool. The young widow had frozen like a terrified doe when he touched her. Her warm skin had cooled to ice under his fingertips.