He was a lot more difficult to read as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and folded back his sleeves, uncovering muscled forearms dusted with golden hair. But when he sat down to mold the clay over the weird wiry structure he called ‘armature’, she really had trouble tearing her eyes from his hands.
Who knew hands could be so...erotic? But the way his skilled fingers molded, shaped, squeezed and caressed the clay made Thalia’s mouth go dry, and another very private place go wet. His hands were big, like the rest of him, tanned, callused, powerful. But there was an innate elegance in their bone structure, the long fingers, the precise way in which they moved over the clay, creating a dip here, smoothing down over there.
The slide of his hands mesmerized her. What would it feel like to have those hands running over her naked body?Caressing her flesh with the same tenderness and skill he was bestowing on an inert piece of clay? A shiver ran through her.
“Are you cold, Lady Renier?” His deep voice, modulated in elegant accents, and undercut by the barest hint of a growl, poured fuel on the inappropriate conflagration of desire burning inside her.
“No, of course not.” She had to clear her throat. “Your coach is very comfortable, my lord.”
Just at that moment, a servant entered with a tray featuring a tea service for one. Seeing that the marquess’s art and supplies occupied the table between them, he deposited the tray on top of the cabinet and opened a similar table beside her seat, then placed the tea tray on it.
“Would you like anything, my lord?” the servant asked.
“A whisky, please.”
The servant poured a glass, placed it on a corner of the marquess’s working table, then slipped out as silently as he had entered.
The marquess sampled his whisky, and Thalia hid her face behind her teacup to avoid staring at the column of his neck, the way it moved as he swallowed the fiery liquid. She took a bracing sip from her tea. It was excellent. The marquess surrounded himself with the finest things in life.
“So, tell me, Lady Renier, you mentioned you were a widow?”
“I am, my lord.”
“What a pity that such a vibrant lady should be widowed so young.”
“I’m not so young,” she protested. “Nor am I vibrant.”
He cut a quick look at her before shifting his focus once more towards the clay.
“And who was your husband?”
“Sir Phillip Renier.”
“A knight?”
“A baronet.”
“Doesn’t seem like a very advantageous marriage for an earl’s daughter. Was it a love match, then?”
Was he mocking her? She had been a wallflower during her two failed seasons. The chances of her securing a more advantageous marriage, let alone a love match, were few to none.
“My marriage suited me.”
He raised one eyebrow at her odd phrasing, but thankfully refrained from continuing that line of conversation. How rude. Would he like it if she started probing into his past and his wife? Then a chill slithered down her spine as she remembered the circumstances of his wife’s death and the rumors about his involvement.
“How long ago were you widowed?” He continued the interrogation.
“Two years, my lord.”
He grunted, looking pained. “All that ‘my-lording’ me is getting tiresome. Call me Liam.”
“I could not possibly use your given name, Lord Ashford.”
“Why not? What’s the use of a name if people may not use it? What is your given name?”
Was he always this direct and blunt? What about talking about the weather, the tea, the continent? Anything but intrusive questions about her.
“It’s Thalia, my lord.”
