Jane’s lips curled smugly. “You’re just jealous because nobody asked you to sit for a portrait. We’ll be lo-o-o-ng gone before your birthday, birthday, birth—”
“So,” the Stanton chit interrupted tentatively, leaning forward to inspect Jane’s locket. “A portrait artist is coming to Blackberry Manor?”
“No,” Gavin said shortly, hoping to curtail this train of thought before it bloomed into a full-fledged conversation.
Jane dropped a jar of marmalade into her lap and chortled. “The portrait artist lives here, Miss Stanton. It’s Uncle Lioncroft!”
The Stanton chit’s jaw tumbled open, giving her already-narrow face the impression of a gaping fish. “Youare a portrait artist?”
“No.” He ripped off a bit of bread and shoved it in his mouth, so as to render himself incapable of participating in the topic further.
“He’s not usually a portrait artist. You’ve seen Uncle Lioncroft’s landscapes,” Nancy prompted helpfully. “They’re on every wall.”
The Stanton chit reprised her gaping-fish impression. “You are alandscapeartist? You painted all those…paintings?”
He pointed to his mouth and commenced exaggerated chewing. The Stanton chit was clearly a featherbrain. He’d eat ten loaves of bread if it allowed him to escape her pointless chatter.
“Talented all his life, Mother says,” Jane added as she spread marmalade atop her bread. “When he wasn’t fencing or racing curricles, and the like.”
If the Stanton chit gaped at him any more, he feared she would pass out.
“I’ve a marvelous idea!” Jane’s sticky bread fell into her lap as she clapped her hands together. “You should ask Uncle Lioncroft to paintyourportrait! Uncle Lioncroft, will you paint Miss Stanton’s portrait, too?”
Gavin swallowed so quickly he choked on the dry crumbs. “No.”
“Oh.” Jane returned her focus to the slice of bread now stuck to her stomach.
The Stanton chit found her voice. “What about Miss Pemberton’s?” she asked, a certain shrewdness in her eyes belying the innocence in her tone. “Would you paint hers?”
He glared at the Stanton chit until she paled and broke eye contact, which took approximately one second. Of course, he would paint Miss Pemberton’s portrait. He had one unfinished in his studio this very moment, did he not? But his private obsession was none of the Stanton chit’s damn business. Impertinent fluff.
Where was Miss Pemberton, anyway? Still over there. Seated between the twins. Passing a basket of fruit to Rose. Chuckling at something Teasdale said. Chuckling at something Teasdale said? Had that deaf old codger managed to wake up long enough to beamusing?Perhaps he was snoring again, and Miss Pemberton was simply laughing at his adenoids.
Why wouldn’t she look this way? Couldn’t she feel his gaze on her? If he stared any harder, he might burn holes in the back of her head. Her gorgeous, ever-mussed head. God, had any other woman ever looked so deliciously rumpled, as if just roused from his bed? That slumberous way of lifting her eyelashes ever so slowly, to send surreptitious little glances his way…Where were those surreptitious little glances now? He wanted glances! It was the least she could do, with all the staringhewas doing.
There she was, laughing again. Teasdale couldn’t possibly be that diverting. She had to be driving him insane on purpose. Why would she choose an old roué with one foot in the casket overhim?Was it the botched apology? Or the extortion? Gavin bet it was the extortion. Well, what else could he have done? Underhanded, he supposed, but at least it worked. She was here, wasn’t she? As were his sister and his nieces. Everyone was smiling. Laughing. Having fun. None of which would’ve happened if he hadn’t resorted to manipulation. Had he known it would be a sticking point, he would’ve added “dining with me upon occasion” to his list of demands.
“Right, Uncle Lioncroft?” Nancy’s voice came a little too loudly, as though she’d been repeating herself for some time.
“Er, right,” he muttered without taking his eyes from Miss Pemberton’s head.
Jane erupted into peals of laughter. “Itoldyou he wasn’t listening! She said the house was on fire, Uncle Lioncroft. Nancy said thehousewas onfireand you said, ‘Er, right.’ She said—you said—” Words dissolved into hiccupping, choked laughter. The Stanton chit was forced to thump Jane on the back until she could breathe again.
Gavin scowled at all three of them.
What had Miss Pemberton meant by saying she was unable to get visions from his touch? Was that typical? That wasn’t the only reason she endured his company, was it? Mental immunity? Because he was pretty sure he’d die right here on this blanket if the only thing to recommend his touch was a lack of accompanying visions.
Granted, he could see how lovemaking would be impossible if every touch of mouth or hand or cock sent her off on a vision of the-devil-knew-what followed by one of those hellacious headaches or, worse, blacking out completely. Nothing would kill the mood quite like unconsciousness.
But, still. No man wished to besettledfor simply because his touch was the lesser evil. Gavin preferred his lovemaking to be a product of mutual passion. Surely the tension between them wasn’t all in his head.
Or was it? Was that why she was off giggling with that rotter Teasdale again? Did she plan to circle the entire party to discover which other men’s touches might be able to bring her pleasure without visions? Gavin wouldn’t stand for such an act. He’d put a stop to any other man’s attentions right now. He’d—
“Uncle Lioncroft?”
“What?”Oh, Lord. He was on his feet and ten paces from his blanket in the direction of hers. He wouldn’t really have planted a facer on a septuagenarian, would he? Damn. He might’ve. Better sit down and have more bread. And a little less wine. Matter of fact, he better trade seats with Jane so he couldn’t see Miss Pemberton at all, or who knew what trouble he’d get himself into. Luckily, Miss Pemberton hadn’t noticed him launch up from the blanket and charge in her direction. She was far too busy. Laughing. With Teasdale.
Devil take it…This was going to be the longest picnic ever.
