Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (42 page)

      
Derrick had been so busy attending to his affairs, he would not notice her absence. In her heart of hearts, she longed for him to say that they need not concern themselves with the ton any longer and that he would spend the rest of his life in the countryside with her. But, of course, he would never do that. Duty did not permit it.

      
She refused to remain melancholy. It was not good for her child, and in spite of Derrick's cruel accusations, she did love the baby growing in her womb. But she would not allow any son or daughter of hers to grow up under the oppressive regimen its father had endured.

      
In the meanwhile there was the salon at Lady Holland's tomorrow night...

* * * *

      
The room was crowded, filled with all manner of people, talking and laughing animatedly, arguing good-naturedly. A faint aroma of hashish floated over the house's rowdy occupants and wine bottles littered every table, even the mantel. This was the nearest to a Neapolitan gathering she'd ever seen in stuffy old England. Several of the guests had asked her how she'd survived captivity in Algiers, but they did so in a forthright manner, seeming to be genuinely concerned.

      
“Quite a contrast to her grace's soiree the other night, eh what?” Bertie said to her with a chuckle, pointing out the lionized and scandalous libertine George Gordon, Lord Byron. “Would you like an introduction, m'dear? He's all the rage in literary circles, even if the diamond squad don't approve of the way he lives.”

      
Beth studied Byron. He was handsome in a flamboyant manner, moving about the room with a dramatic flourish. His curly black hair framed a classically chiseled face with a delicate pouty mouth and deep-set dark eyes that seemed to bore into people and hold them mesmerized as he spoke. ”I have heard about his numerous affairs, even rumors about one with his own sister. At the risk of sounding like the very people who shun me, I find the way he treats his unfortunate wife distasteful.”

      
“Anne Milbanke was a dreadful choice for a wife, but the fault does not lie entirely with him,” Bertie said.

      
“In any case, the great poet is busily engaged with his audience now. You promised that there would be other women artists here,” she replied.

      
Across the room a handsome woman whose straight back and vibrant gestures belied her sixty years described in heavily accented French her time painting at the royal courts of Versailles, Vienna and St. Petersburg. At once Beth knew that she must be Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, by her own humble admission, “France's greatest woman painter.”
      
“Oh, Bertie, that is Madam Vigée-Lebrun, is it not?” she whispered in awe.

      
“I shall allow Lady Holland the privilege of introducing you to her,” he said as their hostess glided toward them. The scandalous divorcee was a plump, almost matronly looking woman of middle years, not at all what Beth had been led to expect. Well, what did she imagine most people thought of
her
? Probably that she danced naked through the sitting rooms of the Lynden city house!

      
Lady Holland was gracious and charming. Although Madame Vigée-Lebrun was neither, she was fascinating and incredibly talented, with a wealth of information to impart. After hearing Bertie's opinion of Beth's gifts, she agreed to look at the younger woman's work and offer a critique.

      
The two women engaged in a detailed discussion of portrait techniques, joined by a number of other well-known male painters, including several members of the Royal Academy. Eventually she drifted into a group of political reformers, including the young cartoonist George Cruikshank, who argued vociferously with several members of Commons regarding protective tariffs against imported wheat.

      
Beth almost forgot her unhappiness for a few hours, joyously embracing a return to her old, carefree life. T
his is where I belong
. She felt fortified to return to the forbidding Lynden city house and resume her painting. Already that night she'd been offered two commissions, one for a portrait of a tabloid writer's young daughter, the other for a landscape from the younger son of Baron Rutherford. Should she accept?

      
As she was mulling this over, Byron sauntered toward her, a glass of claret in his hand. He moved very carefully so as not to draw attention to his crippled foot, about which she knew he was extremely sensitive. He raised his glass to her and smiled.

      
“A diamond of the first water, and a new countess to boot. With your beauty, 'twere best you'd wed a royal duke instead of a mere earl,” he said, saluting her fingertips with a kiss that was not quite proper, but not unpleasant either.

      
“Twere better I wed neither, m'lord,” she replied.

      
Byron chuckled wickedly. “We have much in common, m'lady. Not only are we highly talented and scandal-prone, we're also baldly outspoken.”

      
“What do you know about my talents?” Beth could not believe she was engaging in such blatantly suggestive banter.

      
His deep, dark eyes studied her from beneath heavy lids. He was the perfect picture of sensuous debauchery...and utter charm. “I have heard on good authority that you were one of the finest young painters in Italy. Never forget, I have spent a deal of time there and have numerous friends who keep me informed. Why are you not painting in London?”

      
Beth was taken aback by the abrupt switch from what had been sexual teasing to such a forthright question—and praise for her art. “I have begun to paint again,” she replied almost defensively.

      
“But you've not displayed anything. Does your earl forbid it?” he asked with the gleam of a dare in his eyes.

      
“You should well know that what is permissible in Naples is not acceptable in London.”

      
“That depends upon whether one gives a fig what the public thinks. After outwitting the Algerines, I would think you'd be less fearful of the good opinion of the ton.”

      
“I care little for the good opinion of the ton but much for the legislation my husband sponsors in Parliament,” she replied.

      
“You're in love with your earl then? A pity.” He shrugged. “I've heard Turner praise the way you handle light, and Pignatelli, that old rascal, says you're portraiture skills are considerable. The public is fascinated with Orientalia. Have you ever considered painting scenes from the seraglio? You have unique qualifications to do so.”

      
Beth was stunned by the idea...and highly intrigued. Before she could reply, Byron continued, purring, “You're already in the suds because you had the misfortune to be captured by corsairs. Why not capitalize upon it?”

      
“Why not indeed...” she murmured as several other guests approached and the conversation shifted to Byron's favorite subject—himself.

      
When she broached the question to Bertie, he encouraged her. “Byron has the truth of it, m'dear. You're dished anyway. A demned good way to put the diamond squad at sixes and sevens—show 'emyou don't give a fig for the done thing. Recall earlier when you were telling Madame Vigée-Lebrun about the seraglio?”

      
“Everyone certainly hung on my every word,''Beth admitted. Even the much traveled and worldly wise Frenchwoman had been openly intrigued by Beth's descriptions of harem life.

      
“ A series on the daily lives of the odalisques would raise quite a breeze—and I'd bet a score of the Quality, not to mention those priggish merchants, would stand in line to purchase your work.”

      
The idea certainly held a strong appeal. Everyone was fascinated with the forbidden, the mysterious, the exotic...even if the oh-so-proper English would never confess it. Byron and Bertie were right.

      
“Derrick would be horrified.” She shook her head, recalling the earlier discussion of reform measures pending in Parliament. “What if this further undermined his position in the House of Lords?”

      
Bertie disagreed. “Stuff. Might even help his cause, having a famous wife. The Quality are incredible hypocrites. Caro Lamb's antics haven't put a flea bite on Lord Melborne's career.”

      
“I shall think about it,” was all she replied. What would Derrick do? Would it get his attention? Certainly her attending this salon with Bertie had not. She had left a note on his desk earlier in the afternoon explaining that their cousin was escorting her to Lady Holland's. She had hoped it might bring him to her quarters—if for no other reason than to forbid her to go. Since their last fight he had not spoken to her. And this time when she'd moved to the adjoining bedroom, he had not come to drag her back to his bed.

      
Just then the late supper was announced, a very informal buffet with guests balancing plates and glasses as they scattered about the lower floor of the house. Bertie insisted that they should eat although her appetite had fled. He directed her to find a seat over in a secluded alcove half hidden by potted palms, mentioning that one of Turner's early landscapes hung there. While he went to fetch the food, she lost herself in admiring the painting.

      
“His use of light is quite remarkable...even if he is a bloody Englishman,” a voice behind her said in a lilting and familiar Irish brogue.

      
Stunned, Beth turned and looked up into the bright green eyes of Liam Quinn. The floor seemed to evaporate beneath her feet. For an instant she was once more on the deck of the
Sea Sprite
, surrounded by his savage crew of corsairs. But Quinn no longer wore the heathenish garb or gaudy jewelry of a corsair, although the faint marks on his earlobes still revealed where they'd been pierced. His flaming hair was meticulously barbered, his beard shaved clean away, revealing a genuinely handsome face. He was dressed in a well-tailored cutaway coat of dark green cashmere and tan kerseymere pants. The white cravat at his throat was tied perfectly enough to meet even Drum's exacting standards. Yet there was still an aura of wildness about him that made her wary.

      
Regaining her composure, she said, “By all rights you should have fed the fishes months ago. How did Decatur miss killing you?”

      
He threw back his head in that same booming laugh. “Ah, colleen, bloodthirsty as ever! Haven't you heard of the luck of the Irish? Your redoubtable American commodore gave us chase, taking out two of my schooners, but my brig escaped...loaded with a prize taken from a Maltese galleon. 'Twas no longer safe to ply my trade in the Mediterranean. I sold my cargo in Lisbon and sailed to London.”

      
“Reconverting to Christianity in route, no doubt,” she said scornfully.

      
“By the Holy Rood, so I did. I could not believe my good fortune when I heard about this hoyden of an American who dared to wed an earl. The gossips described you, but the English lack the poetry to do your beauty justice.” He deftly took her hand and raised it to his lips before she realized his intent.

      
Beth jerked her hand away. “Don't try your flummery on me after selling me to the day of Algiers!” she hissed furiously.

      
He looked crestfallen. “Twas poor recompense for the way you nursed me, I do confess, colleen,” he said, sounding not the least bit contrite. “But I stand before you a reformed man.”

      
“Blarney,” she scoffed. “I thought there was a price on your head set by the English. By all rights they should hang you at Tyburn.”

      
He shrugged, as if it was of no concern whatever. “That was in Ireland, many years ago. Long forgotten now...unlike your own scandalous past. You should welcome my company, sweet kitten. After all, we're both strangers in this most inhospitable land.”

      
“The difference being, you went there willingly and I did not,” she snapped, turning to walk away from the dangerous rascal before she clawed his eyes out.
Derrick believes that you gave yourself to him!

      
Before she could negotiate her way around the palm, he seized her wrist and turned her back into his arms, saying, “Not so fast, colleen. We've unfinished business, you and I.”

      
“Release me or I'll see you in Newgate before sunrise,” she gritted out, wishing desperately for the stiletto she had always carried in Naples.

      
“I see my kitten no longer has her sharp claws, else I'd lie bleeding by now—did your earl take your knives away from you?” he murmured.

      
Derrick had insisted she did not need them. How wrong he'd been, she thought as she felt the pressure of Quinn's arms squeezing the breath from her. He was a giant of a man, and an utter savage! His eyes glowed like strange greenish coals dredged from the pits of hell. Beth raised her foot and stamped down as hard as she could on his instep with the pointed heel of her slipper.

      
He grimaced but did not relinquish his grip. She raised her foot a second time, and he moved his foot to avoid another blow. This time she aimed higher. Her knee came up between his legs—very hard. At last he relinquished his grip, collapsing against the wall. Unfortunately Beth was caught in a corner where the Irishman pinned her for a moment as he cursed and gasped for breath.

      
She ducked down and pulled away. Suddenly Quinn's weight was gone and he seemed to fly into the potted palms beside them, breaking several canes. She turned with chagrin to thank her rescuer.

      
And stared into Derrick's icy blue eyes.