And his hands.
And his sweetish scent.
And the tip of his pink tongue.
What was keeping the Duke?
“At the Dowager’s Salon,” she heard behind her, “a few words were bandied about you.Unconventional.Bohemian.”
She placed a steadying hand on the elegant maple curve of the pianoforte and set the dreadful Pope onto its polished surface. Lord St. Alban’s serious, unrelenting gaze sent pinpricks of heat racing down her spine.
It unnerved her. It quickened her pulse.
“They would use those words about me.”
“Why is that?”
“For developing a different point of view.”
“That answer only purports to be an answer.”
She deserved that. She could remain silent and give him nothing more. He would deserve that. But she felt a strange urge to reveal more.
She steeled herself and faced him, her back against the pianoforte. “In the years between my widowhood and my divorce, I developed amost scandalous”—A hard edge of irony laced her tone—“interest in the arts.”
“As a patroness?” he asked. “Or an artist?”
“Both.”
He moved forward, again cutting the distance between them in half, a concentrated alertness about him. He was truly, intensely interested in this conversation. How very odd.
“About the sketches you dropped yesterday—”
“Oh? I don’t recalldroppingany sketches, my lord,” she interrupted, drawing herself up to her fullest, primmest height. Her feet, at last, found firmer ground as she took refuge in self-righteousness, possibly her only escape from being swallowed whole by quicksand. “As I recall, they were knocked from my hands.”
“Are they ruined?”
“I’ll know later.”
“If they are, will you still have access to the originals?”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat. “It must be unusual for such subject matter to be seen in London, much less strewn across a rank sidewalk.”
“I daresay, my lord.”
“Might I view the originals sometime?”
She detected a strange tentativeness not only in his voice, but in his entire demeanor, as a puzzling ribbon of tension twisted through the air between them. “That isn’t a request I can grant.”
“But you know who can?” he pressed. Was that a note of frustration in his voice?
Even across the colorful expanse of an intricately Aubusson carpet, she detected in his bearing a burning desire to have her reply. She opened her mouth and shut it. She would’ve never taken Lord St. Alban for an art lover. The sketches were part of a world that was hers alone, and she wasn’t about to share it with this man who was no longer a stranger, but not a friend either. A change of subject was in order. “I take it you’re unfamiliar with the running of English estates.”
A subtle, but distinct, flicker of dissatisfaction crossed his features. She might be developing too sharp a sensibility of the viscount, if she was able to gauge his moods by his facial expressions.
At last, he replied, “That’s correct. Life aboard a merchant vessel is simple. Buy, sell, trade, transport. Land in England, it seems, has none of those qualities.”
